Dear Diary,
Today is **the day**. I heard it. Clear as a treat bag crinkle.
**“W.A.L.K.”**
They think they’re clever, spelling it out like I don’t know. Please. I am no fool. When Mom and Dad say *that word*, it means **Walk**, and I have been ready since approximately forever. Tail pre-wagged. Muscles activated. Soul prepared.
Before the glorious march, there was the usual chaos at the bird feeders. Dad lets us out to scare off the squirrel raiders, which *could* be a quiet, strategic operation—*if* Reggie would stop beating the drums of war like he’s leading an invasion. The screaming. The barking. The dramatic announcements. By the time the door opens, the squirrels are already halfway to Wisconsin.
Honestly, he’s just jealous. Those tiny legs of his can’t move fast enough to catch them. I, however, **have** caught squirrels before—*when* I’m released quietly. Stealth. Grace. Precision. Reggie prefers panic and noise. Very ineffective.
But enough about amateur tactics.
Today will be **4.8 miles again**, and it will be **majestic**.
It’s warmer out, which means **no coats**—the dream. Just paws on pavement, fresh smells, and the rhythm of the walk. Afterward? Naps. Naps for everyone.
Even Ace will nap with us. Dad has started calling him **“Ace-hole”** for some reason. I *think* it’s because Ace knows things off the counter, jumps up where the food goes, and attempts to steal said food like it’s his job. Dad says he’s “wasting away,” but Ace is definitely getting chunky.
Not as chunky as **Hiro**, though.
Hiro is basically a bowling ball with little legs. So round she can’t clean herself. And Mr. Nasty Reggie—because of course—*thoroughly* enjoys cleaning her for her. It is… disturbing.
Although, if I’m being honest?
Scooby snacks out of the cat box are **mighty tasty**.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must stare intensely at Dad until he puts on his shoes.
— **Willow 🐾**