This morning when I got up and made my way to the kitchen for my daily aspirin and to grab my oatmeal from the fridge, I turned on the light and stepped right into a wet spot on the floor with my nice dry foot. The mystery wasn’t what it was, it was who left it there. Someone had thrown up.
Right away I ruled myself out. That left three names on my list. As long as I’ve known her, my wife has never thrown up on the kitchen floor, so she got checked off the suspect list as well. That left two critters. It was either Max or Charlie.
Once I looked down and noticed the blades of grass in the barf, Max was ruled out. Through the power of deduction, that left only one possible suspect. The cat.
As I was computing all of this in my mind, which had only been awake for a matter of about a minute by this time, Charlie was at my feet looking up at me with a “Sorry about that,” look on his face.
I gave him a couple of strokes on the top of his head and told him, “Hey. I’ve stepped in worse things than this before.”
Figuring he was probably hungry by this point, I slapped some food into a bowl, put it down on the floor, and made my way into the shower.
