Girl Friday Notary Services

10/17/2026

ADOPT YOUR NEW BEST FRIEND FROM THE HUMANE SOCIETY OF TACOMA/PIERCE COUNTY THIS MONTH!

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*Initial vaccines
*Pet care counseling
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Just a friendly reminder! 🐾❤️
Adoption fees at shelters and rescue organizations might seem expensive, but consider what you're actually getting for that money.

Your adoption fee includes spay/neuter surgery, vaccinations, and other veterinary care. The adoption fee alone is almost always far LESS than what you'd pay for just ONE spay or neuter surgery for that supposedly "free" pet you found on Craigslist, Facebook, or through a backyard breeder.

Sponsored adoption events like this make an already great value even better!

Please don't confuse an adoption fee with a price tag. Shelters and rescues invest significant time, money, and resources into caring for these animals. You're not just bringing home a pet. You're supporting lifesaving work and making room for another animal in need. ❤️🐾

10/11/2026

🐾 SMUDGE'S BOX THOUGHTS OF THE DAY 🐾

Attention peasants. We need to address the elephant in the kitchen.

WHY IN THE ACTUAL HELL DO TWO PEOPLE NEED SIXTY EGGS?!

SIXTY.

That's not grocery shopping. That's preparing for a poultry apocalypse.

Dad says Mom eats like a bird, so clearly she's not responsible for this ridiculous quantity of chicken offspring.

Dad has a disturbing history with hard-boiled eggs. All summer, he boiled them BY THE DOZEN and stuffed them into his face while working outside because he was too busy to eat like a civilized human.

He was one hard-boiled egg away from sprouting feathers.

But lately, his obsession seems to have fizzled.

And yet... THE EGGS KEEP COMING.

Naturally, I launched an investigation.

I conducted surveillance. Examined evidence. Interviewed nobody. I work better alone.

And then I discovered something deeply disturbing.

MOTHER IS FEEDING RAW EGGS TO SAKI.

TWO. EVERY. DAY.

One for breakfast and one for dinner.

RAW.

No cooking. No seasoning. Not even the courtesy of a nice little omelet.

Just CRACK. SPLAT. BON APPÉTIT. SHELLS AND ALL.

Disgusting.

But here's where things get REALLY suspicious.

Why isn't Kai getting raw eggs?

Hmmmmmm?

Mom is constantly fawning over that ridiculous tan house hippo.

"Ohhhh, Kai! You're so handsome!"
"Who's my sweet boy?"
"You're such a good boy!"
"I love you SOOOOO much!"

Oh, for the love of tuna.

WE GET IT.

I find his looks merely ordinary. His intelligence? MENSA won't be calling.

Mother acts like he's some magnificent gift to humanity. He's a dog, Mother. Get a grip.

Meanwhile, Saki is getting raw chicken goo dumped into her breakfast and dinner.

Interesting. VERY interesting.

Clearly, something sinister is happening.

Perhaps Mother is attempting to eliminate Saki through salmonella poisoning. Or some other revolting egg-borne affliction.

I'm not a veterinarian. I'm a detective. A brilliant one.

I'll continue monitoring Mother's suspicious culinary activities from the shadows.

If she IS plotting against a house hippo, I wish she'd hurry up.

They're both exhausting.

ANYWAY.

I've devoted far more of my extraordinary brainpower to those dimwitted house hippos than they deserve.

Let's discuss something FAR more important. ME.

And this absolutely GLORIOUS fall weather!

Seriously, what is happening?!

It's October, and apparently summer has decided to come back for an encore performance.

The sunshine! The warmth! The extended outdoor surveillance opportunities!

The birds are chirping away like they've got something important to say. Trust me, I've listened. They don't.

The squirrels are apparently under the impression that my kingdom is their personal playground. Adorable. And incorrect.

Naturally, I must investigate.

And by investigate, I mean stalk, intimidate, and generally make their lives uncomfortable.

It's called wildlife management, people. Look it up.

Mom and Dad seem equally thrilled about this extended summer situation.

Remarkable, since they spend three-quarters of the year acting like Mother Nature singled them out and infected them with Seasonal Affective Disorder.

"It's so dark."
"It's raining AGAIN."
"I'm tired of being cold."
"The dogs are covered in mud again"

GOOD GRIEF.

You'd think someone forced them to move to the Pacific Northwest against their will.

You've lived here for years, you giant babies.

IT RAINS.

It's kind of our thing.

Rain is acceptable from inside my kingdom, preferably atop freshly laundered clothes Mother thinks belong to her.

But sunshine?

Sunshine is an entirely different level of luxury.

It warms my magnificent gray fur, improves my delightful disposition, and extends my outdoor reign of terror over the local wildlife.

Of course, Mother insists on supervising my outdoor excursions.

Apparently something about "predators," "safety," and "not trusting me to make good decisions."

Excuse me?

I am a highly sophisticated feline with exceptional instincts.

Apparently, a few minor incidents involving sketchy wildlife encounters have convinced Mother that I cannot be trusted.

DRAMATIC MUCH?

Anyway, I'm going to enjoy this magnificent weather while it lasts. Soon the squirrels will disappear, the birds will become scarce, and I'll need new victims for my psychological warfare. Perhaps the house hippos. Easy targets.

As for the egg conspiracy?

The investigation remains open.

Mother remains a person of interest.

Saki remains blissfully unaware of her impending doom.

Kai remains handsome only in Mother's wildly biased opinion.

I'm still the only one here with functioning brain cells.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have sixty eggs to account for, a mother to surveil, and several squirrels to reprimand for getting too comfortable on my property.

Justice never sleeps.

Well, actually, I do.

About sixteen hours a day.

But you get the idea.

🐾 Smudge out. 👑

10/04/2026

📦 Smudge’s Box Thoughts of the Day: The Vacation Betrayal Diaries

Dear Diary, Day One: The Suitcases of Doom

Mom brought out the suitcases today.

I knew immediately what they meant. Abandonment. Treachery. Possibly a vacation where she would admire other cats.

I launched an emergency protest by climbing into a suitcase and planting my entire body on top of her clothes. I made myself as heavy as physically possible. My expression clearly said, “If you want to leave, you will have to pack me too.”

Mom picked me up, hugged me tightly then gently placed me on the bed next to the suitcase and continued packing.

This was the greatest injustice I had experienced since Mom looked directly at my nearly empty food bowl and simply walked away.

Today’s punishment idea is to sleep directly on her clean laundry until every garment is upholstered in gray fur.

Dear Diary, Day Two: Alone in the Wilderness

Mom is gone.

The house is silent. The food bowls are unattended. I have been abandoned with nothing but several comfortable beds, fresh water, countless toys, climate control, and the crushing weight of emotional neglect.

A teenage boy entered my home today. He filled my many food and treat bowls and scooped my litter box. I immediately transformed into a shadow and hid where no mortal could find me.

He called my name.

Nice try, stranger.

After he left, I walked through every room screaming at the top of my lungs. I screamed into the hallway. I screamed into the bedroom. I screamed into the bathroom because the acoustics are excellent.

Nobody came.

Today’s punishment idea is to place one cold paw directly on Mom’s face at three in the morning.

Dear Diary, Day Three: The Window of Despair

I spent several hours sitting at the sliding glass door, staring longingly into the distance.

Outside, birds hopped around without a care in the world. Squirrels continued their foolish little errands. The sun shone cheerfully, apparently unaware that my entire world had collapsed.

I positioned myself dramatically against the glass in case anyone nearby was filming a documentary about my suffering.

Still, no rescue party arrived.

The teenage food servant returned. Once again, I vanished before he could see me. He provided food and treats and removed all evidence from the litter box. His work is adequate, but he does not understand that I also require admiration, conversation, and someone to watch me walk away from a bowl of perfectly good food.

Today’s punishment idea is to knock one of Mom’s treasured objects off the counter while maintaining direct eye contact.

Dear Diary, Day Four: My Voice Must Carry

I screamed for Mom again today.

I began with a delicate cry of sorrow. When that failed, I moved into full opera.

I sang of loneliness.

I sang of betrayal.

I sang of the empty hallway and the unacceptable lack of warm lap availability.

My performance lasted several hours and included three encores. Anyone within a three block radius may now believe a distressed mountain lion cub is trapped in Mom’s hallway.

My food servant returned. I supervised from an undisclosed location and found his performance adequate at best.

Today’s punishment idea is to leave a carefully placed hairball exactly where Mom’s bare foot will find it at sunrise.

Dear Diary, Day Five: Revenge Takes Shape

I have now been alone for approximately nine hundred years.

I no longer remember the warmth of Mom’s lap. I barely remember the sound of a treat bag. Her face is fading from memory, although I still remember every time she refused to share her chicken.

I sat at the sliding glass door again, watching the horizon for signs of her return.

Nothing.

I spent the afternoon sharpening my claws, rehearsing my accusations, and composing a speech titled “Why You Are Terrible and How You Can Earn My Forgiveness.”

It is seventeen hours long.

Today’s punishment idea is to follow Mom into every room for the rest of her natural life, including the bathroom.

Especially the bathroom.

Dear Diary, Day Six: The Traitor Returns

The door opened.

There she stood.

Mom.

Alive. Relaxed. Carrying luggage. Smelling like adventure, abandonment, and other people’s furniture.

I launched myself into the hallway and began screaming before the door had fully closed. I delivered every complaint at maximum volume. I screamed while she unpacked. I screamed while she made dinner. I screamed while she sat down. I screamed directly into her face so she could fully appreciate the emotional devastation she had caused.

I screamed until my voice gave out.

Then I climbed into her lap, pressed my entire body against her, and refused to move.

I have been following her everywhere ever since. I am extra affectionate, extremely clingy, and constantly checking to make sure she is still here.

This is not forgiveness.

Today’s punishment is permanent surveillance.

Mom will never use the bathroom alone again. 🐾

09/21/2026

Documents were signed. Stamps were applied. Pets were snuggled. 🐾

A productive week all around!

This collage features the pets I had the pleasure of meeting during my mobile notary appointments last week.

Some were excited to see me.
Some were drooling over my treats.
Some gave me the full body sniff down.
Others remained professionally skeptical.
I respect all approaches.

Meeting them is easily one of my favorite parts of my job.

Need a mobile notary?

Send me a message or call to schedule an appointment.

I come to you, which is convenient for you and excellent for my pet social life!

✨ Girl Friday Notary Services ✨
Notarization may be boring, but I’m not.
Wherever you are, I’ll meet you there.

09/20/2026

Well, well, well. Mom has finally provided me with a satisfactory box.

It is strong, sturdy, and apparently capable of holding eight reams of her precious printer paper.

I weigh considerably less than eight reams of paper, so I highly doubt I can damage it. This box may have potential.

Mom may stay.

For now.

It is a good thing she provided suitable accommodations because I have a rather substantial bone to pick with her.

You see, I have discovered that Mom is regularly cheating on me with strange cats and dogs she meets during her mobile notary appointments.

I have had my suspicions for quite some time. She frequently comes home smelling like animals who do not live here and have not been approved by me.

Until yesterday, I lacked proof.

You see, peasants, I have a dedicated princess bed on Mom’s office desk beside her computer. This allows me to nap comfortably while monitoring her work and silently judging her actions.

Yesterday, as I sashayed back and forth in front of the screen, carefully blocking her view and flicking my magnificent tail across her face, I saw them.

Half a dozen strange cats and dogs.

There they were on her screen, lovingly staring into her eyes just like I do.

The betrayal.
The deception.
The sheer audacity of such an in your face affair.

I may never be able to fully trust Mom’s love and loyalty again.

How would she feel if she discovered that Dad was visiting strange women all over town? What if he came home smelling like their perfume and secretly kept pictures of them on his computer? Would she ever trust him again? Would she stay?

Exactly.

I knew Mom was obsessed with animals, but I never realized the full extent of her disloyalty to me and, to a much lesser degree, the dimwitted house hippos.

Naturally, there will be consequences.

I am currently considering the following:

A surprise 3:07 a.m. concert featuring my full vocal range.

One item pushed from her desk for every animal pictured. Gravity must be allowed to do its work.

Sitting directly on the printer paper five minutes before she needs it.

Relocating one shoe from every pair until further notice.

Adding a tasteful amount of cat hair to all black clothing.

Staring silently at an empty corner until Mom becomes deeply uncomfortable.

Refusing affection for six full minutes, followed by demanding it immediately while she is busy.

Allowing the house hippos to believe they are in charge. Briefly. I am angry, not reckless.

But perhaps the ultimate punishment would be to disappear for a few days.

Mom hears the local pack of coyotes every night, loudly singing the song of their people somewhere beyond our yard.

She knows they roam the neighborhood looking for small animals who ignore neighborhood security advisories.

So if I suddenly vanished, I know exactly where her mind would go.

The coyotes.

She would search the house, the yard, and the neighborhood.
She would call my name until her voice gave out. She would shake the treat bag and listen desperately for the sound of my tiny feet.

Every time the coyotes started singing, she would picture sweet, innocent me being carried off into the darkness.

Just as she began to lose hope that I would ever return, I would casually appear at the back slider and give her one tiny, sweet meow.

Then I would watch the waterworks begin.

She would scoop me up, bawling her eyes out, telling me how much she loves me and how happy she is that I am still alive.

I would allow the emotional reunion to continue for an appropriate amount of time before demanding food.

Would this be manipulative?
Yes.

Would it restore my position as the most important animal in her life?
Also yes.

The punishment must fit the crime, and this crime is significant.

Which punishment should I choose?
Additional suggestions will be considered, but the final decision belongs to me.

Obviously.

Smudge Out!

09/14/2026

🐾 JUST ANOTHER DAY IN THE LIFE OF A MOBILE NOTARY... 🐾

I never know exactly what I’m walking into when I show up for an appointment.

Sometimes it’s a kitchen table. Sometimes it’s an office. And sometimes...there are KITTENS. 😍🐱

The moment my signers opened the door, a petite black and white cat strolled in front of me.

Obviously, I immediately asked, “Can I pick her up?” 😂

Within seconds I had a purring kitty in my arms and was already pretty happy with how this appointment was going.

Then the signers mentioned that their kids were outside trying to catch a "stray" kitten they had spotted behind the house.

Naturally, I had to look.

I glanced through the sliding glass door and saw the kids trying to coax a grey and black tabby kitten toward them.

Then the signers casually added...

“Oh yeah, we also have four kittens that are about four weeks old.”

WAIT. WHAT?!

Of course I had to see them, and among the tiny fluffballs was the most adorable solid grey fluffy kitten.

I almost squealed.

I am an absolute sucker for an all grey cat. 🩶🐱

So now we have Momma, the petite black and white kitty purring in my arms, FOUR tiny babies, AND a mystery tabby outside?!

This was rapidly becoming less of a notary appointment and more of a test of my self control. 😂

The kids eventually caught the little “stray,” who appeared to be about three months old. She was clean, friendly and well fed, so the family brought her inside and planned to walk around the neighborhood to try to find her owner. ❤️

And then came the question...

“Do you want a kitten?”

YES.

I mean...NO. 😂

It took every ounce of willpower I possess to decline.

Thankfully, my husband is the household control factor who prevents me from rescuing, adopting or fostering every animal I come across.

Without him, I would probably be operating Girl Friday Notary Services from inside an unofficial animal sanctuary.

After we wrapped up the signing, the kids brought me into the bedroom to show me all the babies.

All four fluffy kittens were snuggled together in a cozy cat bed, with their newly discovered tabby visitor sitting right beside them.

It was ridiculously adorable. 🥹🐾

And somehow...

I LEFT WITHOUT A KITTEN.

Please respect my strength during this difficult time. 😂

Just one of the many unexpected perks of being a mobile notary!

When you hire me, I come to you. Home, office, hospital, care facility, coffee shop or wherever is most convenient.

And yes, pets are always welcome at my appointments. They may even receive more attention than you do. 😂🐾

Need a mobile notary, Remote Online Notarization, or a Notary Signing Agent?

📲 Reach out and let’s get your appointment scheduled.

✨ GIRL FRIDAY NOTARY SERVICES ✨
Notarization may be boring, but I’m not!
Wherever you are, I'll meet you there.

09/13/2026

📦 Smudge’s Box Thoughts of the Day 📦

🌙 The Overnight Shift 🌙

There seems to be some confusion in this house about what I do all night.

Apparently, because I am frequently discovered sleeping during daylight hours, management has concluded that I am “lazy.”

Cute.

While the rest of you are unconscious and contributing absolutely nothing to this household, I am working the overnight shift.

You’re welcome.

My shift begins shortly after Dad goes to bed.

Mom usually stays up later because she likes a little quiet, late night quality time with me and Kai.
I approve of this arrangement.

Eventually Mom goes upstairs and the real work begins.

First order of business: perimeter security.

Kitchen. Clear.
Living room. Clear.
Laundry room. Suspicious, but that room has a history.
Kai and Saki, the two dimwitted house hippos, are accounted for.

Excellent.

Around midnight, I conduct my first hallway patrol.
This generally involves walking slowly through the darkness, stopping abruptly, and staring intensely at something no one else can see.

Sometimes Mom catches me doing this before she goes upstairs.

She’ll say, “Smudge...what are you looking at?”
Nothing, Mom.
Go to bed.
You don’t want to know.

Next, I conduct a thorough inspection of the kitchen counters.

Bags.
Mail.
Groceries.
Dad’s clothing.

The zoning violations alone could keep me busy all night.

You may remember the sweatshirt incident.

I do.
The Supreme Ruler never forgets.

At approximately 2:00 a.m., it is time for Random Household Noise Investigation.

Was that the refrigerator?
The furnace?
A mouse?
A serial killer?
A rabid trash panda attempting a home invasion?
No idea.

But I will stand completely motionless in the middle of the room with my ears pointed forward until I have determined the threat level.

Sometimes this requires staring silently into a dark corner for several minutes.

If a human happens to witness this and becomes uncomfortable, that is not my problem.
I know what I saw.

At 2:47 a.m., I conduct a high speed tactical sweep of the house.

Kitchen.
Living room.
Hallway.
Around the furniture.
Back through the kitchen.
There is no warning.
There is no explanation.
There is only SPEED.

One or both of the house hippos may lift their heads during these operations.

I appreciate the enthusiasm.
This is specialized work.
Go back to sleep.

At approximately 3:17 a.m., I perform the nightly gravity inspection.
A pen.
A lipgloss tube.
Perhaps something management foolishly left near the edge of a table.

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
THUNK.

Gravity remains fully operational.
Another catastrophe averted.

You’re welcome.

Eventually, I retire upstairs to the Dog Free Cat Safety Zone.
The house hippos are not permitted beyond this point.
There are standards.

Now begins human surveillance.
Dad is breathing.
Mom is breathing.
Excellent.

I may sit on Mom for a while.
Not because I love her.
This is a medical assessment.
Her chest rises.
Her chest falls.
All systems normal.

I then reposition myself directly beside her face.
And stare.
Sometimes for several minutes.
Humans find this unsettling.
I’m not sure why.

Then comes morning.
This is when my job becomes especially demanding.
Because eventually, Mom needs to wake up.
And Mom’s internal alarm clock is, frankly, unreliable.

Fortunately, I provide a complimentary wake up service.

I quietly approach.
I position myself directly over her face.
I stare.
I wait.
Nothing.
Very well.

INITIATE WAKE UP PROTOCOL!

I raise one paw.
Then I pull it back.
And I mean...
ALL.
THE.
WAY.
BACK.

There is occasionally a brief moment when Mom’s subconscious seems to realize something terrible is about to happen.
Her eyes may even begin to open.

Too late.

WHAP!

Full extension.
Ninja speed.
Right across the face.
Good morning, Mother.
☀️

Mom usually wakes up saying words that suggest she does not appreciate the complimentary wake up service.

Again, confusing.

People pay good money for alarm clocks.
Mine comes with whiskers.

I calmly walk away as though nothing happened.
Because nothing happened.
Mom needed to wake up.
Mom is now awake.
Mission accomplished.

By morning, the humans are stirring, the house hippos are beginning another exhausting day of being house hippos, and my overnight shift is officially complete.

I have spent the entire night protecting this family from suspicious noises, paranormal activity, zoning violations, gravity failures, intruders, oversleeping, and whatever the hell I was staring at in the hallway.

And now?
Now I need sleep.

So when you see me curled up comfortably in my box at 10:30 in the morning and say,
“Must be nice to sleep all day, Smudge...”
Just remember:

Some of us were working while you were unconscious.

A little appreciation would be nice.
Preferably in treats.
And a new box.
Obviously.
🐾📦🌙

Smudge Out

09/12/2026

09/11/2026

Twenty five years ago, I went to sleep in a fire station and woke up in a different world.

I was on duty as a firefighter with Central Pierce Fire and Rescue on September 10, 2001. The next morning, as my shift was ending, I was the last person to walk into the station’s living area.

Everyone was gathered around the television.

No one was talking.

That alone was unsettling. A fire station is rarely quiet. There is always conversation, laughter, teasing, the radio, the telephone, something cooking, or someone telling a story. But that morning, there was only silence.

I asked what was so interesting.

No one answered. They simply pointed toward the television.

I turned and saw the towers.

I joined everyone else in that silent, slack jawed, unbelieving stare as we watched the horror unfold. It felt impossible to speak. There were no words large enough for what we were seeing.

I stayed until both towers fell.

Then I could not sit there anymore.

I walked down to my vehicle and began driving home. I called my fiancé, who was sound asleep because he worked nights. When he answered, the only words I could manage were, “I believe we are about to live through World War III.”

He was confused. He had been asleep and knew nothing about what had happened.

I told him to turn on the television and that I would be home soon.

Like millions of people that day, we sat glued to the screen, desperately trying to understand. But the longer we watched, the more unbearable it became. Every new piece of information brought another layer of heartbreak.

At the time, I worked at a station that also housed a Life Flight helicopter and its three person crew. That day, the helicopter was grounded for security reasons.

Their absence changed the entire feeling of the station. There were no rotors coming to life. No thunder of takeoffs. No landings. No Life Flight crew moving through the halls.

Just an eerie and unnatural silence.

As a firefighter, the loss of 343 New York City firefighters struck somewhere deep inside me. In a matter of hours, 343 firefighters were gone because they had answered the call and rushed into danger while everyone else was trying to escape it.

They climbed while the buildings burned.

They climbed beneath the weight of fear, chaos, and unimaginable danger.

They climbed because there were people above them who needed help.

Every firefighter understands that any ordinary shift can become the last one. You hug your family, report for duty, drink coffee with your crew, check the equipment, and answer the alarm. You do not know what will be waiting when the doors open. You only know that when someone is in danger, you go.

On September 11, 343 firefighters went.

They did not all come home.

Twenty five years later, I still cannot watch footage from that day without immediately feeling sick. The tears come before I can stop them. It is not a choice. It is a physical reaction to something permanently seared into my mind and heart.

I can still feel the silence in that station.

I can still see everyone staring at the television.

I can still hear myself telling the man I would later marry that the world was about to change.

And I can still feel the crushing realization that hundreds of my brother and sister firefighters had just given everything they had in service to people they had never met.

Today, I remember the lives taken, the families forever changed, the survivors who carried the weight of that day forward, and the first responders whose courage came at an unimaginable cost.

I remember the 343.

I remember the silence.

I remember the moment the world changed.

And I will never forget.

09/07/2026

🐾 Smudge’s Box Thoughts of the Day 🐾

Apparently, it is honey harvest time here in my kingdom.

Mom and Dad spent ALL DAY yesterday harvesting, spinning, straining, and bottling the 2026 honey crop.

Frankly, the entire operation looked exhausting, sticky, and deeply beneath me. I supervised from a safe distance, naturally.

The servants have been carrying on about what a “rough year” it was for their bees. One hive died, a couple of colonies swarmed at inconvenient times, and they sold a bunch of bees to friends.

This sounds like a series of unfortunate personal choices followed by predictable consequences, but for some reason they insist on bemoaning the situation in my presence.

I am not a honeybee enthusiast. They buzz around like they own the place, despite the fact that I have seen exactly ZERO bees contributing toward the mortgage. Worse, I have to fight them for sipping space at the dozens of bird baths Mom insists on maintaining around MY property.

And does she defend my territorial water rights? Of course not. She spends her time fishing stupid, drowning bees out of the bird baths so they can fly away and return five minutes later with all their friends.

Perhaps natural selection was trying to tell you something, Mother.

Anyway, because Mom and Dad apparently mismanaged their tiny striped livestock, this year’s honey harvest was limited.

This could be a problem because people start hounding them for jars every year as though honey cannot be purchased in stores.

Apparently, their precious “liquid gold” is in high demand, and some hopeful customers may not get their hands on a jar of fresh 2026 bee spit.

Tragic.

Devastating.

Still not seeing how this affects me.

While the humans fret over honey shortages, I am focused on the issues that actually matter.

Are my servants responding quickly enough when summoned?

Will the dimwitted house hippos ever stop incessantly following Mom around the house and begging for food every second of the day?

Will the doors open immediately whenever I scream to be let in, let out, or let back in again because I have changed my mind? My prerogative.

Will my water bowl remain filled with crystal clear, room temperature water?

And why, exactly, are bees receiving emergency rescue services while I sometimes have to meow TWICE before someone acknowledges me?

These are the crises deserving attention.

So congratulations to Mom, Dad, and their remaining employees with wings. You produced a few jars of bee spit despite your year of poor management decisions.

I assume the profits will be invested appropriately in premium cat food, additional water bowls, and perhaps a dedicated servant whose only responsibility is operating doors for me.

After all, this entire kingdom, including the bees, the bird baths, the house hippos, and every last jar of liquid gold, exists under my rule.

The honey may be scarce, but my opinions remain plentiful.

You’re welcome.

Smudge Out 🐾