Eamonn waxed fussy last night but the wife fell on the grenade, hefting him to the living room so I could sleep.
This only delayed my grim reckoning.
The wife laid him on my chest early in the morning, as is our habit.
He promptly vomited everywhere.
Then he rubbed his face in it like a tiger cub in a mound of catnip, snorting and roaring.
Emergency rags were broached and we contained the spill.
Much shushing and patting ensued, finally easing him into dreamland.
Only to wake with a start five minutes later to spout again, Old Faithful-esque, into the pristine vale of my hairy bosom.
I threw in the (puke-soaked) towel and got up to take a shower.
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