A. Marie Silver

A. Marie Silver

Happiness and Harrows of Hairballs

Dear Diary,

Momma has yet again managed to ruin my life by sucking all of the joy out of small, insignificant moments that somehow lift me up, making me feel like the truly superior feline that I am.


As an official member of the Society for Exceptionally Fluffy, Exquisitely Soft, Felines, I can tell you that there are certain challenges I face. Hairballs are one of those challenges. They wreak havock on my tummy and leave a bad taste in my mouth. But I pride myself on trying to keep a positive outlook. That’s why I always plan where I will deposit my hairballs so they achieve the highest amount of entertainment for me.

To date, the most entertaining moment was when Momma didn’t see that I left a pile of regurgitated cat food on the floor of the living room. This was back in the day when there was only one junior prevert living in the house. The Little Thing toddled over, picked up a piece and put it in his mouth. Oh the joy I felt watching Momma freak out because he ate my puke. Naturally I wanted to be supportive and encouraging. I looked at Momma and said, “Well, look at it this way. Now when he tells you your cooking tastes like puke, it’s because he has something to compare it to.” Momma didn’t think that was funny.

As talented as I am, not even I can predict when I will have a stomach ache. But all it takes is some creativity and planning to figure out where in the house I should be when I feel the urge coming on. Take a look at the map I prepared for the hairball I had last week.

Target #1 was key. It required me to puke right along the edge of the sofa. Every morning Momma sneaks down stairs and searches the room for hairballs so that she can clean them up before the junior preverts wake up. To avoid stepping in them, Momma tends to walk very close to the sofa. Normally this works. However, thanks to my planning, it backfired on Momma. When I had my hairball last week, I puked exactly where target #1 was on the map and Momma stepped in it when she came down stairs. About thirty minutes later, I felt the urge to have another hairball. Remembering the map, I aimed for target #2 which was the wood floor.

But then. It happened. Momma. Ruined. Everything. Just like she always does.

I made my way over to the area rug for my final deposit and judging by the way my stomach rolled, I knew it was going to be a difficult one. Afterward, I was going to need lots of cuddles and ear squishes.

Hey! Just because I plan where I puke doesn’t mean I enjoy the actual puking. 

I positioned myself by target #3 – the area rug. Two seconds before the last hairball came up, I felt a pair of human hands shove me off the rug, onto the wood floor. The hairball came up and the bile bounced off the wood floor and splashed my fur. I turned around and found Momma kneeling on the floor next to me. Momma. Momma did this. Momma ruined my plan. Puking on the area rug was the plan for target #3 and Momma ruined it.

And what’s worse, the four-year-old prevert looked over and saw the hairball. She started crying, “Oh no! Poor Gwennie.” Tears flooded down her face. Momma abandoned me and ran over to the little prevert, offering her the comfort I was supposed to get. Everything was ruined. All of my hard work and planning went right down the drain. I mean, sure, Momma did step in one hairball and that was entertaining but my failure to launch on target #3 and a total deprivation of ear squishes completely ruined my life.

That’s all for now, Diary.


Gwendolynn Anne Marie Stefani Collins-Silver.

2 Responses

  1. Gwennie, I find that terribly rude… do you have any thoughts on how I can teach my mean Not Daddy a lesson or two on etiquette… thankfully yours,

    1. Dear Xander,

      Thank you for your sympathy. In the past I’ve found crapping next to Boy-Dadda’s shoes has sent a strong message. Use extreme caution when taking this approach!!! Boy-Dadda did not appreciate that I was trying to teach him a lesson and I found myself running for my life through the house. Fortunately, I run faster than Boy-Dadda. I made it to my designated sanctuary (underneath the Minion’s bed) where Boy-Dadda was unable to reach me.

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A. Marie Smith

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