I have parked my car in the same place in my driveway for years.  Fred knows this.  He will sit on my car and survey the neighbourhood.  My car is dark blue and there are always visible cat prints on it.  I can understand his need for some height; when your line of sight is only ten inches from the ground, it is good to be able to get the lay of the land occasionally.

However,  Fred in a new tactic designed to further aggravate me has calculated exactly where I open my car door.   I was leaving for work one morning.  I reached my car and saw it at the last minute.  A pile of half-digested mouse entrails.  If I had not glanced down, I would have been scraping mice guts off my shoes.  Or worse.  I could have driven away and not noticed the mess in my car until much later.  I swore and stepped over it.  There was no way I was going to stop and scrape vomited mouse remains off my driveway.  I was dressed for work and it was far too early in the day for me to deal with Fred's puking handiwork.   So I silently cursed him and left. 

Why did he do it?  Why fill your gut with so much mouse that you must disgorge some of it later?  And why spew it right in front of my car door?  He must be admired because in spite of this, he is not a stupid cat  He knew what he was doing.  What it a cry for attention?  Or just sheer miserableness on his part?  

I do not know.  Fortunately, for me, it rained hard that day so that when I returned home, most of the pile had been washed away.  Or eaten by the same crows who hang around my neighbourhood on garbage day to dine on my leftovers.  Who knows.  It was gone and I did not have to deal with it.  I was just left with a cat who glared at me significantly when I saw him sitting in the window.   I swear he popping a Tums into his mouth.   Raw mouse probably causes stomach upset.