Today, the male human stroked my tummy and sang (to the tune of "Three Blind Mice"):

Soft bald tum,
Soft bald tum,
See how it barfs,
See how it barfs.

My little sister, as I have mentioned, is named Charlie. So sometimes the humans call us Chuck and Upchuck.

The humans think they are funny.

Now, you may think that I am entirely composed of barfs and sunshine, but there's much more to me than that.

I'm a Renaissance cat--I enjoy a wide variety of activities, such as eating grass, barfing, batting at my little sister from on top of the coffee table, lap sitting, barfing, looking pensively out the window, and barfing.

Eating grass is a personal favorite, though. The back lawn has become a veritable snack bar now that the grass has turned green. I stand at the back door and gesture dramatically towards the handle as soon as the humans get home (I am not yet tall enough to reach it). I have also perfected a "please let me into the backyard to eat the grass" call, which goes something like this: "Brooooowr."

Not only does grass affect my delicate taste buds in a pleasing manner, but it is a convenient way of dislodging unpleasant stomach contents.

Oh, maybe I am composed entirely of barfs and sunshine.

Barfed today, but I kept it simple. Just a small pile in the laundry room--ample punishment for my human having put my collar back on now that it's springtime and I'm going outside to chew the grass.

The humans had butternut squash ravioli and I tried to lick the butter out of their bowls, but they shooed me away. I cuddled them while they watched Tangled, anyway. I like movies.

One of my favorite methods for making a barf epic is to run while barfing. This gives the humans an enticing mystery to unravel: At what point did she start heaving? What was her footpath in comparison to the barf trajectory? Was it one barf or multiple barfs in quick succession?

One of my favorite places to create this game for them is on the windowsill above the dryer. As soon as I feel my innards churning, I affect a modest leap from the windowsill onto the dryer, from the dryer to the washer, and then finally to the linoleum floor below. If I time it right, I can distribute my regurgitated lunch evenly between windowsill (with a little down the wall), dryer (on top as well as down the side), and washer (sometimes even a little bit INTO the washer).

The humans emit a collective groan upon surveying the damage, but I can tell by the questions they ask that they secretly enjoy the detective work. ("Was she RUNNING?" "How did she get barf INSIDE the washing machine when it was closed?")


Here is a picture of me not barfing:

Today, I would like to take a moment to reflect on one of my favorite barfs.

My humans had gone on vacation to some southern tropical paradise. They had the unmitigated temerity to leave me and my little sister at home, alone all day save for short visits from our grandparents (who thankfully resupplied our food and water dishes).

This obsession the humans have with abandoning their houses to visit distant lands is beyond me. It's absurd.

So I, of course, realizing that they needed to be taught a valuable lesson, unleashed one of the most epic barfs of my long and prosperous career. I tossed my cat cookies while sitting on the top of one of the human's computer chairs. Not only that, but I pivoted mid-barf so as to coat BOTH sides of the chair.

My vomitous trophy plunged downward from the top of the chair and into the little vinyl crevices where the chair's arms are screwed into the body, and then continued south to leave some nice spots on the carpet. The humans haven't gone on vacation since.

Hi, I'm Bella. And no, I was not named after the girl from Twilight.

I'm an 11-year-old torbie (tabby + tortoiseshell), and I barf. A lot.

I barf on the floor, I barf on the carpet, I barf on the windowsill, the couch, and, most recently--into my human's expensive, genuine leather moccasins.

I have an annoying little sister named Charlie who torments me to no end.

I barf to feel ALIVE.