My cat learned how to huff today.

I come home from work to find a pile of cat vomit on the living room rug. I clean up what I can and spray a foaming carpet cleaner on the stain.

I leave the room.

Upon my return, my cat Lucifer (Lucy, for short) is hunched over the foamy white mass, sniffing. And sniffing. Then twitching and sniffing some more. I yell, "Get away from that!" and she runs a few feet away and lays down.

Then she rolls onto her back and makes that cooing noise, as if to say, "How can you be mad at me when I'm this disgustingly cute?" A minute later, I notice she's twitching like she does when she gets a hit of the kitty cocaine. She looks at the beckoning pile of foam and realizes sniffing it is like catnip.

But now she has a dilemma. She's been instructed to stay away from the pile of magical happy foam. So she rolls over again. Then again. Then a third time, but on the third roll she kicks her feet and moves a foot closer. She continues this rolling-cooing-kicking motion until she's a foot from the pile, at which point I yell and she runs across the room again.

Now we're playing red light, green light. Every time I turn to type this she inches ever closer to the evaporating pile of foam. There is an urgency in her eyes; she can see the pile is shrinking.

Eventually, I'll invert a bucket on the pile to remind her that life sucks, but for now I'll let her hope.

And now that I've daylogged about my cat, we can safely say that I, as a human being, have jumped the shark.