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I chew my bottom lip.
Quickly, my fingers typeCan cats eat caviar?into the search bar.Then I delete the search and try again.Can cats eat caviar, cake, and crab puffs?
I skim the results, and they all declare the same thing—only in moderation. Is a whole jar of caviar and a couple large bites of vanilla sponge cake considered moderate?
Bear yowls and claws his way out of my arms, collapsing onto the floor. He scurries away as I skim the copious articles. Then a retching sound comes from the other side of the kitchen.
“Bear!” I cry, finding him again.
He peers up at me with the saddest eyes as he retches.
Panic ripples in my cells.Matthew shouldn’t have trusted me with his cat.
Should I call him? Or a vet?
No. I can do this. I can try to fix this.
“You’re okay, little guy.” I kneel beside Bear, scratching the top of his head. “I’ve been there. Trust me. When cronuts were all the rage, I must’ve eaten four boxes of them all at once.”
He stills, seemingly done with his fit of nausea. In a blink, his entire body goes rigid, and he sits up, spine rippling as he vomits on the shearling fabric of my slipper.
“Oh god.” I gag. How do people do this with their children?Hold it together, Molly.This is Matthew’s cat. He might be your cat in the future.
You need to take care of him.
I abandon my slippers and rummage through the pantry and cabinets for cleaning supplies. Where does Olivia keep the puke soap? Is there even such a thing?
My nerves dance around in my body. I finally stumble upon some kind of all-purpose spray. This feels like an all-purpose situation.
I grab a roll of paper towels and return to the scene of the crime. Holding my nose shut with one hand, I use the other to wipe Bear down.
“I’m so sorry; I shouldn’t have left you alone with all of those tasting platters,” I say in a nasally tone, and he purrs loudly. “I had no idea you could climb that high up. Or can you fly?”
He sits watching me clean up his vomit. My slippers likely won’t survive this disaster.
When Bear is all clean, I pull off my sweater and wrap him in it. The smell in the room is horrendous. I scoop Bear up, grab my phone, and rush him over to the living room. “You’re going to be okay now. I got you, Bear.” Tears roll down my face. “Please be okay, buddy.”
Bear purrs, closing his eyes. He seems fine, but guilt weighs heavily on my chest.
What if this is the calm before the vomit-induced storm?
We fall back onto the couch. My vision is a blur as I scroll my phone, searching for an emergency vet nearby.
A call flashes on the screen.My mother.
I decline. I don’t have time for this. But the buzzing returns, this time in the form of a text.
What’s that saying, when it rains, it pours?
I open it.
Mom
Worried about the Winter Ball. Do you have a caterer yet?
Ugh. The world obviously only revolves around her desires.
Molly
