Orwell was right

So I decided to buy G’s cat, Trumpet, some wheatgrass for him to gnaw on, because I’ve heard my whole life that cats need to chew on grass for their digestive systems or something, as well as just for their good health in general since grass has nutrients that can’t be found in meat, and outdoor cats instinctively chew on grass to heal injuries and stuff, and I think Trumpet would benefit from yummy grass-snacks and plus I feel bad for him being cooped up inside so maybe this can simulate a tiny patch of The Great Outdoors for him. So the following conversation ensued over messenger:

[11:18] Virginia: Oh also, I bought Trumpet wheatgrass and I’m bringing it over tonight… only… I have a question.

[11:18] Virginia: Are you going to get really mad at me if it makes him throw up? Because it’s supposed to be good for him, but there is a *slight* chance it will make him vomit.

[11:18] Grant: Of course not.

[11:19] Virginia: My intentions are pure, but your carpet may not remain so.

[11:19] Grant: He throws up recreationally all the time.

[11:19] Virginia: hahahahahahahahhahahahahaha.

[11:19] Virginia: “Recreationally”.

[11:19] Virginia: I am blogging about that.

Recreationally. I love it. It’s true though; I swear my roommate’s damn dog farts recreationally just to piss us off. She definitely intentionally enters the room where people inevitably have convened before she lets it rip. Animals are smarter than we give ’em credit for, man. I bet Trumpet pukes on purpose just to make me look bad; he’s still jealous of the attention I steal away from him, I am convinced of this. He does crazy antics (like a couple weeks ago he woke us up by literally climbing on top of the door. Like, the 1.5-inch-wide door) to catch our attention, not to mention all the carefully-timed meowing. The wheels are turning in that little mind, I tell you.

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