Socks, our cat in South Africa, was a British longhair.  Okay, some kind of longhair.  This means I am used to cats puking.  No matter how much we brushed her (she used to love it), every now and again she’d sit in the middle of the living room and retch her heart out, or rather a furball.  And Lothar or I cleaned it up.

So far, Henry has spared us this experience.  Until tonight.  I guess it was his wish to shed his toasty fur coat in this heat (who wouldn’t?) and he’s swallowed more hairs than usual.

Oh joy!