Hi, it’s me. Arya. The one sitting here looking like I just realized life is unfair. Spoiler alert: it is. You know why? Because everything outside is frozen. Frozen ground. Frozen grass. Frozen air. Frozen water. Frozen ME. I step outside and instantly regret every decision that led me to this moment. My paws? Popsicles. My nose? An icicle. My soul? Frostbite.
Seriously, who invented winter? I just want to talk.
And don’t even get me started on the blanket situation. Inside, it’s a full-on Battle Royale for Warmth. Reggie thinks he’s the king of blanket mountain, hogging all the covers like he pays the heating bill. Willow? Oh, Willow has no room to talk. She’s the queen of bed real estate theft. I’ve seen her push Dad so far to the edge that one more shove and he’s sleeping on the floor. And she acts innocent, like, “What? I’m just stretching.” Yeah, stretching your way into a hostile takeover.
Then I overheard Kim say the most terrifying thing ever:
“The dogs take up too much bed space. I’m looking at a kennel.”
Excuse me, WHAT?! She said the K-word! My ears still haven’t recovered. What kind of kennel are we talking about here? Because the last one? The one where all three of us get shoved in like sardines? Yeah, that’s not a kennel. That’s a can of misery. Willow says not to worry because she’s always slept in bed with Dad. Easy for her to say—she’s basically a professional bed hog. Me? I’m still scared. I like my freedom. I like my blankets. I like my dignity.
So here I sit, plotting my next move. Maybe if I look extra cute (see photo evidence above), they’ll forget about the kennel idea. Or maybe I’ll just glue myself to Dad’s side like a furry space heater. Either way, winter is dumb, blankets are life, and if anyone says “kennel” again, I’m filing a formal complaint.
Mom bought all of us matching coats but dad didn’t put them in this morning before he shoveled and took out the trash and recycling. It was brutal.
Stay warm out there,
Arya
(President of the Anti-Kennel Coalition)