Dear Diary,
Dad still hasn’t filled the bird feeders. Again. The backyard is a barren wasteland of empty hooks and broken promises. Bellatrix, ever the drama queen, filed a formal complaint with the Department of Feline Affairs. She even used her angry tail swish signature. Very official.
Meanwhile, one rogue bird has taken it upon himself to entertain us. He’s been dive-bombing the window like he’s auditioning for Top Gun: Avian Edition. I give him a 7/10 for effort, but he’s no Netflix.
This morning’s entertainment, however, was chef’s kiss. Reggie struck again. Poor Ace was just trying to vibe when Reggie decided it was cuddle assault o’clock. Ace looked violated. I looked amused. I was sprawled out like a furry throw pillow, soaking in the chaos like it was a spa treatment.
I remain unbothered. I remain fabulous.
Until Dad refills the feeders or Reggie gets neutered,
Smokey