Them what has, gets.

Because I did not have a long enough pre-Pennsic task/stress list, it was clearly time for Mage to become violently ill. Somewhere around noon, Steve heard him making the "I am unhappy and about to york" noise, but this is not terribly uncommon (piggy eater + massive hair intake), so he didn't pay much heed. On the fifth iteration, we took more notice--by that time, he had nothing to come up but a tiny bit of bile. Whereupon we also noticed that he'd been running at the other end. O, the rapture of wiping your cat's bottom. Not that he enjoyed it much, either.

Since the vet closes at 1 on Saturdays, we took him up to the animal hospital. He was running a touch of fever and was a bit dehydrated (duhr!), but the X-ray didn't find any obstructions in his guts, and he hadn't dry-heaved any further from the time we got him to the hospital, so we took him home with intent to monitor closely. (Of course, he's been sacked out under the living room chair since 7. Continual barfing really takes it out of you. So, not so much monitoring. I bet he gives me a close-up of his stinky cat butt at about three AM, though.)

After my gibbering finished, I tried to regain the threads of my scattered thoughts & plans, and have in fact achieved marinating meat for jerky, as well as a batch of chicken tarragon pasties. w00t. Way behind on sewing. not w00t.