Dear Diary,
Let’s get one thing straight: my butt is royalty. It does not touch the ground unless the surface meets my very specific standards of softness, plushness, and overall hiney luxury. Outside? Forget it. I sit on Arya. She’s warm, fluffy, and doesn’t complain (much). Inside? I require the finest blankets, cushions, or laps. If it’s not cloud-like, I’m standing. Period.
Now, onto today’s entertainment: Ace scratching the furniture. Dad saw it and instead of scolding him, he cheered me on like I was entering the ring at WrestleMania. I launched into a full takedown—pinned Ace to the ground like a pro. I held him there until I got bored or until he started yelling about “personal space.” Whatever that is.
Oh, and speaking of Ace… he strutted around today asking if anyone “bought tickets to the gun show.” I laughed so hard I snorted kibble. Gun show? Please. The only thing Ace is flexing is his delusion. Good thing he’s not a comedian—he’d be booed off the scratching post.
Anyway, time to fluff my blanket throne and prepare for my evening nap. I’ve earned it.
Regally yours,
Reggie