“bwawck bwawck … bwawck-bwawck-bwawck …”

(pause)

“bwaaaaaaaaaaawck”

For one who has cats, no explanation is necessary. For one without cats, no explanation is possible.

Then again, Saint Thomas Aquinas was no fan of cats, or animals in general, having posited in 1264 that they do not possess a consciousness, or a soul, or even the ability to reason or understand.

To which, any cat servant 760 years later would respond … bwaaaaaaaaaaawck

The Head of the Household bwawcked on the underside of her favorite quilt the other day — a little detail she neglected to inform us of, figuring (quite rightly) that we would find out on our own.

Which we did … later that night, when we pulled the quilt up to shoulder-length as we settled into bed — a discovery that elicited utterances of “shoot” and “phooey,” or words to that effect.

For one who has cats, no explanation is necessary.

No hairball was in evidence. So, too, was there no sign of regurgitated kibble. This was just your relatively harmless, run-of-the-mill, clear, odorless bwawck — damp and icky to the touch — requiring nothing more that a brief wipe down, then replacing the quilt for that night’s slumber.

The Head of the Household was not pleased.

In fairness, she hasn’t been pleased for quite some time, a condition that you might suggest began when her back legs became (sorry, but only the medical term will suffice) wonky but, in actuality, first expressed itself shortly after exiting the womb.

Aquinas notwithstanding, she was displeased as her favorite quilt was relegated to the floor for a few days before we could get to the laundromat with the super-sized washers. She was displeased with the replacement quilt upon the bed — it was poofy and sterile whereas her favorite was compliant and lived-in.

She refrained from bwawcking on it, however, likely in fear that if this was the second-best we could provide, she had no desire to experience what might come next.

(Editor’s note: We realize that some of you might be reading this in astonishment and wonder; perhaps asking whether, since we’ve entered the cat vomit portion of our program, the bottom of our barrel was indeed being scraped. For those thinking along these lines, we can only can conclude that you must be new here.)

The Head of the Household hasn’t been herself lately. Her orders have become minimal — squawking at us when it’s time to turn off the television for the night, or sitting in front of the dormant fireplace when she demands warmth.

Easy tasks that, as long as we monitor the food supply and the litter box, keep her content. Along with the persistent hitch in her get-along, the only other sign of aging is that she’s been prone to staring off into the distance, apparently at nothing.

On that last point, I can relate. On my work desk, I have a coaster that reads, “My superpower? I can look you dead in the face while you’re talking & not hear a damn thing you said.”

I suspect I inherited that trait from her through osmosis.

It took six dollar coins and two quarters to sufficiently wash her quilty pleasure; then, more dollar coins and — for some scientifically reason beyond my comprehension — a trio of tennis balls to properly dry it.

The Head of the Household let out an exasperated grunt when we got home and placed the folded quilt temporarily upon the poofy pretender. At least, she reasoned, all was nearly right with the universe.

For one who has cats — and even those who don’t — no explanation of what came later that night, when order had been restored, is necessary.

“bwaaaaaaaaaaawck”

Phooey.