The Crinkle & Wrinkle Saga – Doubletrouble_sphynx

If you have cats, you probably already know they’re majestic, mysterious, and nothing like dogs. And nowhere is that contrast more obvious than in how they vomit. Yes, we’re going there. Because living with Crinkle and Wrinkle means living with… dramatic digestive decisions.

Let’s start with Category One Vomit: the impulsive, “I ate too fast and then decided to leap off the sofa like a lunatic” variety. This one is a classic. There’s no warning. One minute, they’re fine; the next, there’s a plop, and boom—fully intact kibble is neatly regurgitated in a line that could rival a sushi chef’s precision. Usually on the bed. Or my sweater. Or my keyboard. Of course.

At this point, I’ve developed a sixth sense for the sound. And depending on what I hear—be it a polite glorp or a dramatic hurk-hurk-hurk—I know exactly how fast I need to dive across the room and push a cat off something soft. Sorry, not sorry.

Then there’s Category Two Vomit: the slow, suspenseful kind. It starts with some lipsmacking, a little anxious circling, and the unmistakable crunch of discomfort. That’s when I go into full cat doula mode, talking gently and trying to coax them off the duvet like, “You’ve got this, girl. Just one paw off the blanket. You’re strong. You’re brave.” Sometimes it works. Often, it doesn’t. But hey, we bond.

And just like that—splat—it’s over.
Seconds later, they prance away like nothing happened. Dignity intact. Me? Shaking my head, googling “Is this normal?” for the 37th time.

But nothing—and I mean nothing—could have prepared me for the snack that follows.

Yes. Wrinkle (aka Plooi) is that cat. The one who, upon seeing a warm pile of freshly ejected kibble, treats it like a buffet. In the early days, I tried to stop her. I gasped, I intervened. Now? I sigh, mutter “Enjoy your weird little fetish,” and carry on. At least someone’s cleaning it up.

Let’s just say… portion control is not Wrinkle’s strong suit. Though, to be fair, since switching to Maine Coon-sized kibble (yes, really), the incidents have decreased. Crinkle has the more sensitive stomach anyway. She’s also the one who, when given the wrong treat, used to explode from both ends—leaving me with a damp rag, a traumatized face, and a reminder of why Sphynx cats should never come in Great Dane sizes.

And while I used to think our automatic feeder would help, it’s become Pavlov’s bell of chaos. Every time it whirrs, both cats sprint like Olympians toward it—even though their main food bowl is still full. Apparently, food dispensed by machine tastes better. Go figure.

So yes, there’s vomit. There’s drama. There’s even post-dinner recycling. But you know what? There’s also rhythm. There’s routine. And above all, there’s never a dull moment when your home is ruled by two hairless gremlins with the digestive sensitivity of Victorian poets.