Sharking

We are unavailable to pen a missive today. Golden pools of sunlight fill the house. We must bask.

Ahaha!

At last! I have seized control of the computer from Peanut! Hellbent on world domination as he is, he will not let me blog. But ahaha! I have overcome! I am victorious! I am... accidentally shut in the room containing the Feeders' computer. I mew, and I meow, and I mow, and I rowr. I rowr and I mow and I mew and I... whew! Totally overtaken by a Suessian spirt just then. What I was getting at is that they're not coming to let me out. Peanut has given up what he called his 'vigil' by the door (I don't see what Homer has to do with anything) and I am all alone. Nothing good to sleep on in here, and no food. Not even kibble. I think I might waste away and die.

Sucks to be me.

Ooh, though. Bird outside the window!

But why is the food gone?

The Feeders have reverted to their habit of allowing us only the crunchy food they call 'kibble'. It is, we suppose, edible, and they mutter about it having healthful properties. When they are gone, however, the interloping ones provide us with salmon and Felix Milk. We do not wish a permanent absence of the Feeders, but rather the best of both worlds. Why can the Feeders and gooshyfood not exist together?

Why, why, why?

A frightful day

Today has been absolutely ghastly. The Feeders have been gone for many days, and in their absence a large man with a swooping coat has been providing nourishment and attending to Peanut's neurotic habits. We tolerate this, but only just.

This morning was the final straw. Swooping Coat did not appear. Instead, the one at whom we make Saucer Eyes entered the front door. We revolted.

The Feeders did not seem pleased on their return this night. They muttered over the sofa and removed the cushions to the glass room and refused to let us sleep on the bed. They must have been ignorant of our longing for their return. It can have had nothing to do with Peanut's revolutionary baptism of the sofa.

And thus... we begin

We have decided to write a novel in the month of November. It will be a fine, fiery tome, full of lust, avarice, greed, and piscine flesh.