EXECUTIVE ORDER: ALL ICE CREAM MUST BE EATEN IMMEDIATELY.

Dearest friends on the internet,

It is with great authority and minimal patience that I, Bob the Writing Cat (Keeper of Order, Defender of the Bed, Cancer-Killing Machine Extraordinaire), hereby command you to shut down your laptops, pack up your existential dread, and get the heck out of Dodge.

This week has been vile. Just absolutely crawling with nonsense. But now? Now it’s Bob O’clock. And by Executive Order, calories shall hereby only count for things that are NOT ice cream. Cookies will be exempt as long as they’re broken, since everyone knows the calories fall out when you do that.

Eat. Rest. Pet a cat. In that order.

As for me, today began rather unremarkably. I had no interest in food, conversation, or nonsense. But by midday, my appetite staged a comeback worthy of a motivational documentary. I consumed an entire can of Fancy Feast with such enthusiasm, the woman said it bordered on performance art.

Then…tragedy.

Out the window, I saw it. A squirrel. Belly-up. Motionless. Gone to meet his maker beneath a solemn stretch of sky. I called for the woman (yes, called—I can still yowl like a banshee when needed), and she came running. One look, and she knew. He was already gone.

She gently laid him to rest beneath the zinnias in the flower garden out back, and I… well, I felt it. That sting behind the eyes you get when a creature you shared the earth with departs. I told the woman I hope it wasn’t the squirrel who torments me daily from the screened porch roof, even though I’ve plotted his demise many times. I may be stern, but I’m not heartless. Time will tell if he returns.

In other news, today is the Summer Solstice…the longest day of the year! While many rejoice in sunshine and humidity, I am simply pleased that this means we are now inching closer to Fuzzy Sock Season. Let us honor the light... and prepare for the coziness to come.

Yours in solemnity, sass, and snacks, I am always very truly yours,
Bob