Dear Diary,
I am officially done. DONE. It’s cold. It’s dark. It’s like the sun packed up and moved to Florida without me. My tongue is out because I’ve given up on dignity. Arya gets it—she’s curled up like a burrito, dreaming of summer. Willow? Oh, Willow’s out there strutting around like she’s on a tropical beach. No jacket. No sweater. Just pure chaos energy.
Meanwhile, I’m lying here, contemplating life choices. We used to do 4.8-mile walks. Remember those? Yeah, me neither. Now it’s just me, this blanket, and the crushing weight of doggy depression. If someone says “Let’s go outside,” I might bite the air in protest.
Send help. Or snacks. Or a heated treadmill.
—Reggie (The Frozen Potato)