Russell has always had an iron stomach. He has never coughed up a hairball on my floor. Not even once.

His sister used to do that with great regularity, always at three in the morning, always at the foot of my bed, or if she were feeling especially devious, right outside my bedroom door where I was guaranteed to step in it first thing in the morning. She performed her weekly regurgitations with great gusto, dramatically coughing at high volume and making the most ghastly sounds aimed at getting me to join her on my knees on the carpet.

Last night Russell finally caught the rat he had released into the wilds of my kitchen last week. There must be some instinct that tells cats to take a kill somewhere else to eat/play with it. Normally he brings his prey inside the house and flings it about gleefully until I catch him and shoo him outside before he gets fur/feathers/guts all over the place. If it's a frog, I catch the poor frightened beastie and gently release it in the garden and lock the cat inside.

Last night tho, he begged to be let out, rat clamped firmly in his jaws. I obliged and closed the window behind him to keep him from sneaking it back in.

This morning I found him in the hallway, sitting in from of a pile of rat barf, looking so thoroughly disgusted and depressed, it made me smile. I feel bad for the little guy. He just looks like he feels nauseated and yucky, and that's hard to pull off for a cat.

Get better soon, my furry son.