Because we made the three hour trip to our vacation home so frequently, Dad decreed there would be no stops for any reason, and with one truly traumatic exception, we never did. On that occasion, the station wagon was, as usual, crammed to capacity with Mom, Dad, kids, luggage, food cooler, and of course, the cat and dog. As Dad was barreling down the Jersey Turnpike at his customary 80 miles per hour, the cat got car sick and threw up all over the back luggage area of the station wagon, where my sister and I were also sitting. (No seatbelts then, folks.) All of a sudden we started shrieking, “Mom! Dad! Butterball’s barf is MOVING.” The cat had thrown up a huge long tapeworm all over my brother’s new raft and my science report. We were climbing over each other trying to escape to the back seat. Dad, meanwhile, was trying to control the car through major pandemonium. The cat, frightened by the uproar, ran forward and peed copiously down the front of the bench seat, all over my mother and brother. It was another five miles before the next exit where my parents got the hugely unpleasant task of trying to clean this all up while we kids sobbed miserably outside the car – me over my science project, my brother over his raft and his reeking shirt, and my sister because Dad kept yelling, “I’m going to KILL that cat!” (She figured he meant it.) Thereafter, the cat always traveled in a pet carrier, howling dolorously.