Dear Diary,
February 20, 2026
Another day of supreme comfort in that enormous dog bed, all mine while those lumbering canines were out. Arya, Willow, and Reggie left it blissfully empty, and I claimed every inch like the sovereign feline I am. It's my oversized paradise without them around, and they're way too oafish to outmaneuver me even if they tried.
Bellatrix keeps purring to Ace about the allure of the outdoors—vast skies, thrilling scents, the whole nine lives. She's got him daydreaming, eyes wide with curiosity. But Onyx? He's countering with his cautionary yarn, meowing about that time he escaped, roamed to some mysterious land called Clinton, and was adrift for what seemed like forever. Spine-tingling stuff! I'm still pondering who to side with—adventure calls, but so does safety.
Dad's routine continues, fifth day in a row now, herding Arya, Willow, and Reggie for their walk. He fits them with those bizarre harnesses that make them look ready to parachute from the clouds, then latches them to his belt. It's a hilarious tug-of-war—who's really in charge? By dusk, the trio was zonked, practically dragging their tails to bed. Weaklings. I'd ace that trek without a single yawn, graceful and tireless.
Claws crossed for more bed time tomorrow,
Pipsqueak