Dear Diary,
I would like to officially go on record and state, for the millionth time, THAT WAS NOT MY FART.
Everyone looked at me. Everyone.
But I swear on my favorite blanket burrito—it was Arya. She did it. Silent. Deadly. Walked away like an angel. I’m the victim of a cover‑up.
Then—THEN—Dad had the audacity to mention a walk this morning before we even got out of bed. I briefly felt hope. Joy. Purpose.
But when I peeked outside?
SNOW.
Actual snow. On the ground.
That’s a hard #NOPE from me. I am not built for cold. I am built for couches, blankets, and climates where my paws don’t feel personally attacked by weather.
Dad keeps saying he wants to move someplace warmer, which I fully support and have supported since birth. LET’S GO. I’M READY.
Apparently, we “can’t move until Cameron is out of school.”
When is that?
Because at this rate it sounds like 20 dog lifetimes from now, and I simply do not have that kind of patience or cartilage.
To make matters worse, we haven’t gone on a walk in over a week.
Dad hurt his knee and has been limping around. I feel bad for him… but also… sir, my routine is in shambles.
The squirrels know this.
Dad thinks they’ve gotten smarter and now wait until dark to raid the bird feeders.
Cowards.
Criminals.
Dastardly night‑world bandits operating under cover of darkness while I am trapped inside with thoughts.
And then there’s Pipsqueak.
So tiny.
So soft.
So clearly in need of being informed who runs this house.
But NOOOO—Mom and Dad won’t let me show her who’s boss. Apparently “gentle” and “be nice” apply here. Unbelievable.
So let’s recap:
- Falsely accused of fart crimes
- Snow outside like it’s personal
- No walks
- Dad limping
- Squirrels winning
- Can’t discipline the kitten
Honestly, this day could not be worse.
Unless someone blames me for another fart.
Which, let’s be clear, also won’t be me.
Exhaustedly yours,
Reggie 🐾💨