Pukehontas? The Puke of Earl?

The Duke of Hurl was my late cat's moniker (or actually Duchess, but whatever). She distinguished herself during one of my hellish stints of impending-finals in grad school, when, in the face of utter and desperate pantsless destitution, I'd stolen some time away from the library to run a load of laundry so I'd actually have (*gasp!*) some clean jeans and underwear. The precious clean clothes were sitting, neatly folded, in a basket right under my dining table, the D. of H. got up on said table, crouched on the edge, and ... yeah. Let loose. ALL over my clean laundry.

She also threw up on, among many other places, (a) my down comforter, (b) the radiator (WOW did that smell awful), (c) every throw rug I ever brought into the place, and (d) my sheepskin slippers. For years after her demise (which did not, surprisingly enough, occur at my hands after the aforementioned incident, but rather at the ripe age of 16), I kept finding little dried-out heaps of barf in odd secluded corners of the apartment. I can only imagine that the current tenant, years later, uncovers the occasional dessicated surprise as well from time to time.

Dessicated surprises: I already found the mummified mouse she stashed under the mattress of the spare bed. Pukehontas...love it.

Lord Launch Lunch would like to hang out with The Duke of Hurl , Pukehontas and Pukezilla someday and discuss Ralph and where you best surprise your owner with fresh hairballs. His record: my pillow - while I was sleeping on it.

Sir Barfalot!

dabitch: oh god, that's just...ewwww. Tell me you woke up during the "performance" rather than finding it next morning.