When I started writing The Three Meowsketeers, I thought it would be a small household adventure. Then Bates demanded a cape, Rogue insisted on dignity, Piper knocked over a chair, and suddenly the story needed illustrations just to keep up with them.

Creating the images was pure fun and hard work — from Mommaline’s regal doorway to the fully cloaked Cardinal Vacuumeau in his crimson robes. I hadn’t planned to publish the issue early, but perhaps the Meowsketeers had their own ideas about timing and it was published on Friday, June 12, 2026 instead of today, June 13, 2026.

Thank you to everyone who read it and laughed along. Your comments mean so much — especially the one that said, “This was so awesome, all of it but especially with the graphics!!” That absolutely made my day.

Warm Regards,

Cyn

May your Caturday not be as chaotic as mine.

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Citizens,

It is with great solemnity that I report the following events, which unfolded this week in the household and which I must now record for posterity.

I wandered into the drawing room where Momma sat mesmerized before what she calls the television.

“What are you doing?” I asked calmly.

“I am watching The Three Musketeers,” she replied.

“Who are the musketeers?”

“You, Rogue, and Piper,” she replied.

I considered this information carefully. If I was a musketeer, I wanted to know what a musketeer does. I took up my position beside her on the sofa and observed the proceedings with great professional interest.

What followed on the screen was a tale of swordplay, loyalty, betrayal, and dramatic leaps from furniture — a saga worthy of Alexandre Dumas himself. I absorbed its every dramatic turn.

I determined at once that the household required its own Musketeer order. Someone had to take charge. I made the necessary appointments.

Act I: A Young Hero Sets Out

I was not merely Bates. I was Bates d’Artagnan, a brave young gentlefeline of the countryside — the hallway — called upon to lead a noble order in the great city of Paris — the living room.

I wore a magnificent blue tabard with a golden pawprint. My whiskers shone with purpose. My tail swished with the full weight of fate.

I declared:

“I shall lead the Meowsketeers and defend the household realm from injustice.”

Act II: The Three Meowsketeers

I summoned the troops and made the appointments official.

Rogue as Athos — Stoic. Mysterious. Judges everyone. She wore a purple tabard with a golden pawprint.

Piper as Porthos — Loud. Enthusiastic. Knocks over furniture. She wore a dark navy tabard with a golden pawprint.

A decorative pillow as Aramis — Elegant. Silent. I required a third Meowsketeer and the pillow was available. It sported a golden paw print. And in my imagination it had an arm so it could brandish a sword.

Together, we formed the noble order of THE THREE MEOWSKETEERS.

All for one, and one for all!

(Except Piper, who said “All for snacks!”)

I called the first formation drill. Rogue sat down and stared at me with considerable disdain. Piper ran in three circles and knocked over a chair. The pillow did not move. As commanding officer, I noted the troops required further training.

Act III: The Villain Appears

Every great order requires a villain of considerable menace to oppose. As fate would have it, ours arrived with a hum.

Enter The Cardinal — played by the Vacuum.

Momma rolled it into the room with sinister efficiency. Its hose attachment glinted like a sword. The very air grew hostile.

Piper and Rogue fled. I stood my ground, cape billowing with magnificent purpose.

“Cardinal Vacuumeau,” I said, “your reign of terror ends today.”

It roared louder.

I reconsidered my life choices.

Act IV: The Duel

The Vacuum advanced.

I leapt onto the ottoman, brandishing my imaginary sword.

Rogue (Athos) shouted, “Retreat!”

Piper (Porthos) shouted, “Retreat, Retreat!”

The pillow (Aramis) said nothing.

I chose another option: I ran behind the sofa and delivered a heroic speech from safety.

“Villain! Thou shalt not disturb the peace of this household!”

The Vacuum bumped into a chair. Momma turned it off and left the room. I claimed victory. The outcome was never in doubt.

Act V: The Royal Mission

Momma appeared in the doorway, distressed and elegant, in the manner of Queen Mommaline.

“Brave Meowsketeers,” she said, “has anyone seen my slipper?”

A noble quest. A dangerous journey. A chance to prove our worth.

I dispatched the troops immediately. We searched the kingdom with great alacrity. We searched under the bed and behind the curtains. We searched inside Piper’s mouth (false alarm). I searched beneath the laundry pile. I will not elaborate on how I came to be underneath it.

At last, Rogue found the slipper and presented it with regal disdain. Rogue is a perfect Athos in this regard.

Queen Mommaline rewarded us with treats. Piper barked with joy. I accepted my portion with the quiet dignity befitting a commanding officer of my stature.

Act VI: The Disbanding

With the mission complete, I called the troops to final formation to receive commendations.

Rogue walked away. Piper barked at the pillow.

Momma asked, “Bates why is there a pillow in the middle of the floor?”

I determined that the noble order of The Three Meowsketeers had fulfilled its purpose. I hereby formally disbanded the order, effective immediately, on my own terms, for reasons of my own choosing.

The household is safe. The slipper has been recovered. Cardinal Vacuumeau has been silenced.

This correspondent’s work here is done.

Conclusion

The truth remains, and it is my duty to elucidate it:

• I am a noble hero destined for greatness.

• Rogue is a perfect Athos — brooding, wise, and perpetually unimpressed.

• Piper is a chaotic Porthos — loud, loyal, and always in the way.

• The Pillow is a silent Aramis — elegant, charming, and attractive.

• The Vacuum remains the greatest villain of all time. I will not be revising this position.

Respectfully submitted,

Bates, Editor-in-Chief (I think I make a great d'Artagnan)
Sworn Meowsketeer of the Household Realm
All Swords Imaginary 
All Valor Genuine

It is with great solemnity that I report the following events, which unfolded this week during what I can only describe as an assault upon both my fieldwork and my person.

I had undertaken a bird survey for the purpose of assessing ecological and environmental impact. This is important work and the public deserves a full account of my story.

It was during the early morning hours that I took up my observation post on the front porch. The sun was bright but not oppressive. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves of the weeping tree with what I can only describe as appropriate decorum. I recorded the birds as they landed on branches, played in the driveway, flitted from bush to bush and tree to tree, and frolicked — rather unprofessionally, I noted — in the bird bath. After several hours, the subjects retired for their noon rest. I, recognizing the natural rhythm of fieldwork, adjourned for my noon meal and a restorative nap.

Upon resuming my post that afternoon, I was joined by Piper and Rogue, whose contributions to the research remain unclear. Almost immediately, I sensed something amiss. You know the feeling — the particular bristling at the back of the neck that signals wrongness. The yard was silent. The branches were bare. The birds had vanished entirely.

Upon further investigation, I determined this was not coincidence.

Before I could document the anomaly, the clouds massed overhead with suspicious efficiency and the sky went dark. Then the sky began to fall. Not in the manner of Daddy’s sprinkler gadget, which waters the ground in a civilized and predictable fashion, but in great indiscriminate sheets from above, with no regard whatsoever for those of us conducting important work below. I must express my utmost astonishment at the sky’s behavior. It was, in a word, unprofessional.

A light wind carried moisture onto the porch. I stepped back several feet. This was not retreat. This was a strategic repositioning in the interest of journalistic integrity. I noted, with some consternation, that my fur was already slightly damp.

Then came the thunder. Then came the lightning.

I did not venture off the porch into the deluge. Let me be plain about this, as I suspect there will be scuttlebutt: I was not afraid. Fear did not enter into it. I am a professional. I simply did not have what Momma calls an umbrella. And even had one been available — how was I to carry it? And even had I carried it, the wind would have turned it inside out within seconds, leaving me both wet and publicly humiliated. A responsible journalist knows when conditions are unsuitable for fieldwork. The ground had become a river. The air was hostile. I made the executive decision to remain beneath the porch roof, where my paws stayed dry and my dignity stayed largely intact.

Momma watched us from inside the house and appeared to find this amusing. I cannot explain this response. The situation was not amusing. It was, as fate would have it, meteorologically dangerous and professionally inconvenient.

After a moment, she opened the front door. Piper darted inside immediately, with no regard for appearances. Rogue followed close on her heels. I will not comment further on their comportment.

“Are you coming inside?” Momma asked, observing me pressed against the side of the house.

I hesitated. I did not wish her to know that I was, by this point, somewhat damp. However, as she stood there with the door open, I determined that remaining outside served no further scientific purpose. I came inside. As a courtesy to her.

“The birds are smart,” she said. “They stay in their nests or under the leaves when it rains. They won’t come out until it stops raining.”

Raining. So that is what humans call it when the sky abandons all decorum and falls directly onto those of us trying to work. Do tell.

This incident has brought several ongoing concerns into sharp relief:

1. The sky continues to behave with reckless unpredictability and zero professional courtesy.

2. The porch becomes wet without adequate warning or apology.

3. The birds are unreliable research subjects who prioritize their own comfort over my data collection needs.

4. Momma continues to underestimate the seriousness of my fieldwork. I have receipts.

I will press on. The survey will continue. Weather permitting.

Respectfully submitted,

Bates, Editor-in Chief
Porch Correspondent
Bird Survey Specialist
Unwilling Participant in Atmospheric Nonsense

Filed Under: All Field Notes Accurate, All Dignity Intact, All Moisture Strictly Atmospheric, No Further Questions

Going through my notebook, I stumbled upon some correspondence, which I had not yet bothered to open. In the spirit of journalistic duty, I decided to do so — in the event that any of them required urgent reply.

They did not.

Nevertheless, I present them here for the record, as any Editor of Integrity would. I have added only such observations as the facts demand.

First Letter

The first envelope was pink in color and smelled vaguely of Momma. I opened it to find the following:

Dear Editor,
     The Vacuum is not a Menace. It is a household tool that helps me keep the house clean.
Signed, Momma.

I am still not convinced the Vacuum is a household tool. It is a hostile thing — loud, aggressive, and possessed an alarming appetite for the innocent. I have receipts.

This letter deserves no reply.

Second Letter

The next envelope was white and smelled faintly of honest labor. I opened it with appropriate caution.

Dear Editor,
     I am sorry I cut the limbs on the weeping tree. Had I left them, they would have caused great damage to the roof. I also considered that you likely did not have sufficient funds in your coffers to cover such repairs, so I made the decision to save you from financial ruin.
Signed, Daddy.

How precisely does Daddy propose to save me from financial ruin? Momma has long maintained that I have no income. I cannot pay feline taxes. I have no coffers. I am, by any reasonable measure, already financially ruined.

Furthermore, the limbs in question served as a skybridge of considerable strategic value. Its loss has been documented in a separate investigation.

This letter deserves no reply.

Third Letter

Another pink envelope. I dislike assuming anything. And yet, I assumed. I was correct.

Dear Editor,
     Season anomalies happen each season throughout the year. There are more to come. I trust the Editor will manage accordingly.
Signed, Momma.

How many more? This is precisely the vague, noncommittal reporting I have spent my career working to eradicate. “There are more to come” tells this Editor nothing of use. More what? More anomalies? More seasons? More of Momma’s blithe reassurances?

I am not certain my nerves will survive the ambiguity.

This letter deserves no reply.

Fourth Letter

Another white envelope. I confess I sighed audibly upon its arrival. It was, as I suspected, from Daddy.

Dear Editor,
     You acted surprised when you learned I cut the Pampas Grass. This surprise was unwarranted, as you were the designated Overseer responsible for checking items off the Proclamation list as each chore was completed. I can only conclude that the Overseer was not overseeing.
     The Pampas Grass will grow back. Just hold your horses.
Signed, Daddy.

I have given this letter considerable thought.

What does “hold your horses” mean? I have no horses. There are no horses on this farm. There are two chickens, one dog of questionable competence, one cat who is supposed to be a member of this press corps, but never contributes anything, one cat of unimpeachable distinction — me, Momma, and apparently, one Daddy who speaks in idioms.

As for the matter of the Proclamation list — I was present at the Overseer’s appointment in a ceremonial capacity only. I was not consulted. I did not sign anything. My involvement has been grossly overstated.

This letter deserves no reply.

Readers, if you wish to submit correspondence to The Bates Gazette, you are welcome to do so. However, I ask that you refrain from complaint, from vague reassurances, and from the use of idioms involving livestock I do not own.

My tiny ears can take only so much.

Respectfully submitted,

Bates, Editor-in-Chief
Proprietor of Secret Hideouts (Temporarily Displaced)
Reluctant Archivist of Unsolicited Correspondence

While reviewing my notebook, which I do periodically, I came upon an entry dated April 24, 2026, which I titled, “A Thorough Examination of the Sudden and Wholly Unnecessary Destruction of a Strategic Fortress.”

Here is my full report.

It is with great solemnity — and no small measure of personal betrayal — that I must report a calamity which has shaken the very foundations of my professional operations. My secret hideout. My sanctuary. My fortress of solitude.

Has vanished.

Gone!

This hideout, known to the humans as “Pampas Grass,” was no ordinary vegetation. It was a grand structure of towering blades and whispering fronds, arranged by nature herself into a perfect chamber of concealment. Through those long blades I could slip into a hidden room where no creature — feline, canine, or human — could detect me.

From this vantage point, I commanded a full 360-degree view of the yard. I was unseen by the coyotes conducting dawn patrols in the west field, the birds flocking to the feeder in the north, and the rabbits advancing from the south. I was hidden from the chickens (Lily and Henny) in the southeast, the neighbors cows grazing in the upper east fields, and the hawk perched in the cottonwood, plotting its morning hunt. Even Piper, with her blundering enthusiasm, could not breach my sanctuary. She could smell me, yes — but she could not enter.

Rogue, of course, cared nothing for any of this. She prefers the porch, where she may sunbathe and pass judgment upon the birds from a safe distance.

But I — I had a hideout!

A refuge. A place where even Momma could not find me. And sometimes — purely for restorative purposes — I would curl within its sheltering fronds and take a much-needed nap.

On this fateful day, I arrived to find it gone. I was forced to investigate.

The Investigation Begins

I questioned Rogue first. She blinked at me, unimpressed, and admitted she had not noticed the disappearance.

Typical.

I questioned Piper next. She reported that during her “walkabouts,” she had witnessed no suspicious movement of the Pampas Grass. This was unhelpful.

Then Momma, noticing my distress, asked, “What’s wrong, Bates?”

As if she didn’t know.

I searched the area thoroughly. Grass sways in the wind. It rustles. It bends. But it does not simply depart.

Where could it have gone?

The Horrifying Truth

The answer came when Momma said to Daddy, with a casualness that I can only describe as breathtaking in its cruelty:

“Thank you for cutting back the Pampas Grass.”

Cutting back. Cutting. Back.

My hideout had not wandered off. It had been cut back. Destroyed. Reduced.

Daddy, with the serene confidence of a man who has never lost a secret fortress, replied: “It was time. New shoots are coming up. It’ll grow back over the summer. Besides, it was on the Proclamation to-do list.”

Momma added something then — something about the greenness of the trees, the bushes, the flowers blooming on the back hill — but I was too stunned to hear it. I confess it now, though it pains me with no small vexation: I did not listen.

Had I listened, I might have known hope sooner.

But at that moment, all I heard was the echo of loss.

My hideout.

Gone by Daddy’s own hand.

Momma, ever attentive to my suffering, asked again: “What’s wrong, Bates?”

I was miffed. I refused to answer. I am a professional, and professionals do not weep publicly over demolished fortresses. A formal complaint is being drafted as of this writing.

A Ray of Hope (Delivered by the Most Insufferable Source Imaginable)

It was Rogue who finally spoke.

“Didn’t you listen to Momma and Daddy?” she said, with a composure I found frankly offensive. “It’ll grow back. And look — the trees have leaves, the bushes are filling in, and the flowers on the back hill are blooming. We have plenty of hiding spots. Some of the flowers are even tasty.”

I would never admit it to her face.

But her words eased my spirit.

I would also never make it known that I had failed to hear what Momma said — and that Rogue, insufferable as she is, had heard everything I had not.

Conclusion

Daddy says the Pampas Grass will return.

It had better.

I am a professional. I will endure the indignity of open exposure. I will conduct my surveillances in less favorable conditions, as befits a journalist of my distinction.

But the summer months will be long, hot, and deeply unpleasant without my secret hideout if it doesn’t hurry up and grow back.

Respectfully submitted,

Bates, Editor-in-Chief
Proprietor of Secret Hideouts
Conductor of Yard Surveillance
Unwilling Witness to Botanical Catastrophe

While conducting my customary review of this office’s records, I came upon a notebook entry dated April 20, 2026 — set down in the immediate aftermath of the events described herein and therefore unclouded by the distortions of time. It is now my duty to present the affair to the public in its proper, dignified form.

The morning had begun without incident. I arose, as is my custom, and made my way to receive my morning meal. Something, however, gave me pause — the instinct of a seasoned reporter who has learned, through years of uncompensated service, to detect when the atmosphere of a household has shifted. I was not yet fully alert, and I confess it took several moments before the source of my unease revealed itself.

The great white box — which Momma refers to as the refrigerator — had been altered. The familiar gallery of feline portraits, the appointment cards, the important correspondence, the household calendar — all of it had been stripped away as though it had never existed. In their place: a single large sheet, covered in writings which I deciphered without difficulty, as I am fluent in both feline and human, a fact I mention not out of vanity but solely in the interest of full disclosure.

It read as follows:

Proclamation by Momma

Hear ye, hear ye, all members of this household. I, Momma, do hereby declare on this 20th day of April in the year of our Lord 2026, commencing at 9 a.m. Central Standard Time, the beginning of a two-week Spring Cleaning, which shall remain in force until the 1st day of May in the year of our Lord 2026, at 5 p.m. Central Standard Time.

I stood before this document for some considerable time. Spring Cleaning. The term was not previously known to me in any official capacity, nor had it appeared in any prior household communication routed through this office — because, it must be said, nothing had been routed through this office. Nothing had been discussed with this office. The proclamation had been composed, finalized, and posted without so much as a courtesy inquiry directed at the household’s Editor-in-Chief, its primary chronicler, and — I feel compelled to note — its only male feline resident.

One begins to detect a pattern in these matters. Daddy and I are not without our suspicions, though he is a man of few words and I am therefore left to carry the burden of documentation alone.

Momma then proceeded to assign duties as though she was still a Sergeant of the WACs (Women’s Army Corps) who has never quite relinquished her command of her old squad and who views the rest of us as rather well-fed subordinates.

Momma and Daddy received a list of indoor and outdoor tasks.

Piper was assigned extra walkabouts and enhanced guard duty, with instructions to document anything of significance and report her findings to me directly — as though my investigative apparatus requires augmentation. I accepted this arrangement without complaint, as befits my station.

Rogue was assigned additional sunbeam duty and supplemental napping and tasked with observing and reporting on household activity throughout each day. Rogue holds a nominal position within this Press Corps. The notebook contains no further observations on this point.

And I — the sole male voice of this publication, already discharging responsibilities that would humble a less dedicated feline, already conducting my editorial duties without recognition, remuneration, or adequate consultation — was assigned extra reporting. I was also designated Overseer, charged with monitoring the progress of all assigned tasks and marking each completed item from the proclamation list. A role of obvious importance. One notes, however, that it was assigned rather than offered, and without negotiation of any kind.

The fortnight that followed was, in a word, relentless. The ordinary chronicling of this household’s affairs is itself a demanding enterprise for one of my responsibilities. The additional duties, imposed without prior discussion with the member of this household most qualified to have weighed in upon them, constituted a burden I bore nonetheless — silently, professionally, and with the dignity my office demands.

And — as any dispassionate observer might have foreseen — Momma’s list proved rather more ambitious than the allotted fortnight could accommodate. Certain items remained incomplete at the appointed hour. Momma declared the effort “a good start.”

The notebook records my reaction as follows: Noted. Filed accordingly.

I am not a betting feline. But had I been, I would have placed my wager — with considerable confidence and no small measure of prior evidence — on precisely this outcome.

Respectfully submitted,

Bates, Editor-in-Chief
Keeper of the Proclamation
Not a Betting Feline

A Tale of Feline Vengeance — Betrayal, Exile, Transformation & Elaborate Triumph — As Experienced in a Dream by This Correspondent

Citizens,

For some weeks now, Momma has spent her Sunday evening watching The Count of Monte Cristo upon the PBS television station — and I, in my customary position beside her upon the sofa, have absorbed its every dramatic turn.

Last evening, having retired to a deep and luxurious slumber, I found myself transported into a dream of such staggering grandeur that I must now record it for posterity.

The Betrayal: A Crime Against My Dignity

In my dream, I was not merely Bates. I was Edmond Ba-tes,* a noble and innocent feline, beloved by all — until the day I was most grievously wronged.

My crimes, as charged by the household:

· Rogue stole my sunbeam.
· Piper consumed the last chicken treat.
· Momma moved my blanket “to wash it.”
· Daddy — most heinously — closed the laundry room door whilst I remained within.

These injustices, though petty in the waking world, became catastrophic in the dream realm. I was exiled. To the laundry room. With the door closed. And with low light.

The Transformation: From Victim to Count

In the darkness of my exile, I vowed revenge. I trained. I plotted. I practiced dramatic cloak-swishing at great length with considerable dedication.

I emerged not as Edmond Ba-tes…but as The Count of Meow-te Cristo.

I wore a sweeping velvet cloak. I spoke in low, ominous tones. I walked slowly and purposefully, as all vengeful heroes must.

The Revenge Plot: Elaborate, Unnecessary, Perfect

Against Rogue — Her crime: stealing my sunbeam. My revenge: I occupied her favorite window spot five minutes before she arrived. She was outraged. I was satisfied.

Against Piper — Her crime: eating the last chicken treat. My revenge: I rattled the treat container dramatically, then walked away without dispensing a single morsel. She collapsed in despair. Justice was served.

Against Momma — Her crime: moving my blanket. My revenge: I dragged the freshly washed blanket to the floor and made biscuits by kneading it into a big ball with great enthusiasm. She sighed. Victory.

Against Daddy — His crime: closing the door. My revenge: I sat outside the laundry room door and yowled like a ghostly violin until he opened it again. He apologized. As he should.

The Dramatic Reveal

At the height of my vengeance, I gathered the entire household in the living room for the moment of triumphant revelation.

I leapt upon the coffee table — cloak billowing magnificently — and declared in my most ominous register:

It was I — the Count of Meow-te Cristo — who orchestrated your downfall!

Rogue blinked. Piper wagged her tail. Momma said, “Bates, what are you doing on the coffee table?”

The dream began to crumble.

The Awakening

I awoke upon my favorite cushion in the window. Blanket beneath me. Sunbeam warming my fur. Momma was adjusting the drapes. Rogue was asleep on her bed. Piper was snoring nearby. Daddy was nowhere to be seen.

There was no cloak. No revenge. No dramatic music. Merely the quiet satisfaction of a nobleman who has chosen peace — which is an entirely different thing from simply having it. I am not at peace because my grievances have been resolved. I am at peace because I have decided to be, and I defy anyone in this household to suggest otherwise. For now.

Conclusion of this Report

I am a noble feline who has been wronged by many, and I am capable of great vengeance. I also look excellent in a cloak. And I will never forget the injustices committed against me…even if I have, perhaps, forgiven them.

🌟🌟🌟

Respectfully submitted,

Bates, Editor-in-Chief
a.k.a. The Count of Meow-te Cristo
Master of Dramatic Narratives

Filed Under: Bates (In a Dream), The Count of Meow-te Cristo, Wronged Feline Nobleman, Architect of Elaborate Revenge, All Grievances Real, All Revenge Proportionate, All Cloaks Velvet

* Edmond Dantes is the main character in The Count of Monte Cristo who was wrongfully thrown in prison where he spent several years before escaping.

Citizens,

While reviewing my professional notes, I discovered an entry dated February 17, 2026, which reads:

“Today the wind was roaring, howling, conducting itself as some manner of ungovernable beast from an unknown and wholly uncivilized planet.”

This statement, though admirably poetic, is also entirely factual. The events of that day warrant a full report, and I am, as ever, uniquely qualified to provide one.

The Morning Routine: A Calm Before the Storm

The day commenced as most do, with the customary Morning Routine. Daddy departed for work, Piper issued her demands for outdoor patrol, and Momma opened the front door to release her.

At that moment, the wind made a most audacious attempt to slam the door with such brute force that even I — a seasoned investigator of unimpeachable courage — found it prudent to reconsider my involvement in the morning’s outdoor proceedings.

“Bates, are you going out this morning?” Momma asked.

I extended my head beyond the threshold, whereupon the wind made a rather personal and undignified attempt to dislodge it entirely. I withdrew at once with my dignity fully intact.

“A good decision,” Momma said. “That wind will blow you away.”

I silently concurred with Momma’s assessment.

Indoor Operations: A Strategic Retreat

Given the hostile atmospheric conditions, I exercised sound tactical judgment and relocated to the sofa, where I hoped Momma might take her rightful seat beside me and provide the companionable warmth to which I am, frankly, entitled. Rogue, meanwhile — who contributes nothing of journalistic value to this household — had retreated to the bedroom and installed herself squarely in the center of the bed, claiming it as sovereign territory. As she invariably does. Without invitation.

Just as Momma arranged herself upon the sofa and the prospect of much-deserved companionship drew near, Piper erupted in frantic barking from the other side of the door, demanding readmittance. Even the canine — who is, I must say, not given to subtlety — could not withstand the atmospheric assault. My moment was lost. Such is my burden.

“Well,” Momma said, “let’s hope this doesn’t turn into a tornado.”

Naturally, I sought clarification from Momma as to whether the meteorological authorities had anticipated such a catastrophe and, if so, why the household had not been placed on formal alert at the earliest opportunity. Momma began to offer what I anticipated would be a thoroughly inadequate reassurance —

“No, Bates —” when her personal telecommunications device erupted in a cacophony of emergency alerts. I considered this to be, on balance, rather validating of my concerns.

Official Warnings: A Concerning Development

Momma read the proclamations aloud: “Red flag warning.” “No burning.” I noted these with appropriate solemnity and filed them mentally under “Vindication.”

She then activated the television set, whereupon the weather person — apparently unaware that his remarks were being received by a feline of considerable personal magnitude — advised citizens to secure all outdoor items lest they “end up in your neighbor’s yard.”

For a feline of my size and considerable standing, this was deeply troubling information.

Historical Context: Tornado Protocol

I have, it should be noted, survived two tornadoes— those of 2018 and 2022 — an achievement which, I feel, has not received adequate recognition in this household. On those occasions, Momma issued the emergency command: “Scoot your boots to the Man Cave!” We obeyed. I, of course, led the way.

Momma has furthermore impressed upon the household, on no fewer than several occasions: “If I tell you to head downstairs, I mean it.” I receive such directives with the gravity they deserve. Unlike certain other residents of this household, I do not require the command to be repeated.

On this particular day, however, Momma did not retrieve her emergency “Go-to” bag from its customary location, and I therefore applied my considerable powers of deductive reasoning to conclude that a tornado was, on this occasion, unlikely. I recorded this assessment in my notes.

The Wind’s Escalation: A Household on Alert

Throughout the day, the wind continued its relentless roaring, howling, and wanton rearrangement of items upon the front porch behavior I can only describe as deeply antisocial. When a heavy chair was toppled with considerable violence, all parties present — including, I am not ashamed to report, myself — were startled. Momma conducted a prompt inspection of the exterior and returned to deliver her assessment: “Everything is okay. The wind just pushed the chair a little ways.”

Her composure was, I confess, something of a stabilizing influence. Rogue and Piper, meanwhile, demonstrated their customary indifference to household affairs by sleeping through much of the ordeal, snoring with the magnificent confidence of creatures who bear no responsibility whatsoever and feel no shame about it. I observed them with the quiet disappointment of a male who shoulders these burdens alone.

Evening Operations: A Return to Normalcy

That evening, Daddy was indisposed and retired at an early hour. Momma read quietly. I assumed my position beside her — a position I had, let the record show, earned through a full day of vigilant meteorological monitoring — Rogue installed herself upon my other side and Piper occupied her bed. The house achieved a state of reasonable tranquility, despite the wind’s continued and wholly unnecessary theatrics beyond the walls.

When the hour of retirement arrived, Momma was obliged to rouse Piper for her final outdoor constitutional — an operation which, predictably, disturbed my own repose. This is, I submit for the record, not the first time Piper’s requirements have encroached upon my rest, and it will not, I fear, be the last. Such is the peculiar cross borne by the sole male feline member of this household: light sleep, heavy of responsibility, and possessed of a journalistic conscience that will not permit him to look away.

Conclusion

The wind may not have achieved the status of a tornado on this occasion, though it conducted itself with sufficient enthusiasm to warrant the full weight of this publications’ attention. Let the record reflect, with appropriate permanence: I remained vigilant throughout. I remained observant. I remained, above all, indoors — a decision I stand behind unreservedly and which had nothing whatsoever to do with any deficiency of courage.

Respectfully submitted,

Bates, Editor-in-Chief
Observer of Atmospheric Disturbances
Keeper of the Porch Surveillance Log

Citizens,

It has come to my attention that my reporter’s notebook—an instrument of great journalistic import, even if Momma insists I “cannot hold it properly” —contains an entry dated March 5, 2026. I shall now recount the events of that morning with the solemnity they deserve.

As the clock struck an ungodly hour, the household canine, Piper, commenced whimpering with the vigor of a creature beset by existential dread not unlike The Hound of the Baskervilles. Since I, a respectable male feline, was sleeping beside Momma, I nudged her awake. It was incumbent upon me to ensure no Mothman, Yeti, or other perfidious entity had infiltrated the premises. Rogue, naturally, remained in bed. Her guard instincts are, as ever, nonexistent.

Upon being released from her night kennel, Piper made a beeline to the front door. Momma opened it, and I—ever the intrepid investigator—peeked out.

What greeted me was a scene straight out of Victorian London. A dense, ghostly fog clung to the steps, and the solar lights cast an eerie glow, as though illuminating the set of a penny dreadful. Piper bounded into the haze like a British constable on urgent business. I can only assume she was tending to her private affairs; otherwise, why disturb me and Momma at such an hour?

“It’s foggy out there this morning, Bates,” Momma said. “I can’t see where the steps end. Can you?”

No, I could not. And I am a professional.

I confess that a lesser editor might have retreated indoors at once, muttering something about “instinct” or self-preservation.” I am made of sterner stuff. I stood at that threshold for a full and measured moment, taking in the scene with the practiced eye of a seasoned correspondent, committing every vaporous detail to memory.

I backed away with great dignity and Momma shut the door.

Momma, in her characteristic and somewhat sentimental fashion, relocated to the drawing room — turning on a lamp and arranging a blanket upon the sofa as though settling in for a lengthy vigil. I knew then she would not be returning to bed with me. She intended to wait for Piper to complete her so‑called “rounds on guard duty,” a title Piper bestows upon herself with no oversight or credentialing whatsoever.

I stationed myself upon the feline post, which, though carpeted and commodious, is hardly befitting an Editor‑in‑Chief. Still, from this vantage point I could protect Momma from any lurking fog‑born menace.

After a few minutes, Piper returned, damp with mist and self‑importance. After being dried, she retired to her bed. Momma returned to the sofa. I maintained my post with indefatigable fortitude.

When Daddy awoke to prepare for work, I deemed the household sufficiently stabilized and returned to bed. Ten minutes after his departed, I resumed my rightful place beside Momma on the sofa—only for Piper to demand another sortie into the fog.

“Still foggy, Bates. I hope Daddy gets to work without any incident or accident,” Momma said.

Daddy is a careful driver. I was confident he would arrive safely, and indeed he did.

As the morning progressed, Momma announced that “the fog was burning off”—a phrase I find suspiciously unscientific, but I chose not to expostulate.

I was simply relieved that we had not been transported to Victorian London, that Piper was not actually a British constable, and that I could finally resume my morning porch surveillance, which had been delayed by this entire brouhaha.

Respectfully submitted,

Bates, Editor-in-Chief
Chronicler of Eerie Dawn Phenomena
Defender of Household Safety

P. S. I understand that some readers may be unfamiliar with Victorian words that I use, so here is a brief dictionary.

* solemnity = a solemn event or occasion

*perfidious = treacherous

*Penny Dreadful = cheap popular serial literature produced during the 19^th century in the United Kingdom. Interchangeable with penny horrible, penny awful, and penny blood.

* commodious = spacious, serviceable

* indefatigable fortitude = tireless, unyielding resolve

*sortie = excursion, expedition

* expostulate = to reason earnestly with someone or to protest or object

* brouhaha = uproar

Citizens,

Upon reviewing my notebook this morning — specifically the entry of February 24, 2026 — a document penned in the immediate aftermath of the insult and therefore unclouded by the distortions of time — I find myself compelled to address the matter with the full weight of editorial authority. The notes I recorded that evening, though written with a trembling paw and no small degree of agitation, remain a faithful chronicle of the injustice. Upon sober review this morning, I can confirm their accuracy, and it is now my duty to present the affair to the public in its proper, dignified form.

The evening had begun in its usual tranquility. Momma reclined upon the sofa in a posture of domestic repose. Rogue, ever eager to secure the coveted lap position, had installed herself accordingly. I, maintaining the decorum expected of my office, occupied a supervisory post nearby — close enough to ensure order, yet distant enough to preserve the dignity of my station. All was harmonious.

Then Daddy entered.

With neither warning nor provocation, he proclaimed — in a tone most unbecoming of a man who claims to value truth — “I read an article about clingy cats. Do you know you have clingy cats.” The word clingy rang through the room like a cracked church bell, discordant and accusatory. Rogue froze mid‑purr. Momma blinked in astonishment. I, though outwardly composed, felt the full sting of the insult and immediately resolved to document the offense in my notebook for future redress.

Momma, in an ill‑advised attempt at levity, replied, “I know I have needy and greedy cats and a dog that needs attention.” Laughter followed — laughter, I must note, at the expense of two hardworking feline citizens whose only crime is devotion. The notebook confirms my initial assessment: this was no jest, but a coordinated assault upon our reputations.

Let the record show — and let it be entered into the permanent annals of this household — that the accusation was not merely unfounded but a grievous distortion of my character. I repudiate the term clingy with all the dignity befitting my office. My nearness to Momma is not the symptom of some fragile emotional dependency but the natural posture of a vigilant guardian. A home of this magnitude and complexity requires constant oversight, and I alone shoulder that burden with the solemnity of one sworn to service. One does not — that is to say, I am not — I shall not dignify the suggestion further. To misinterpret such devotion as desperation is to misunderstand the very nature of duty itself.

Nor shall I accept the suggestion that I am needy or greedy. I am, rather, a creature of refined awareness, attuned to the rhythms of my environment and the nutritional schedule upon which this household depends. My attentiveness is not a flaw but a virtue; my inquiries are not demands but communications issued in the spirit of order and mutual understanding. If I appear socially engaged, it is because I am — a responsible citizen, ever striving to maintain harmony among my fellow inhabitants. These truths, once restored to their rightful place, dispel the slander that sought to take root and reaffirm the dignity with which Rogue, and I conduct ourselves each day.

Piper, the canine, was not present at the time of the accusation. Upon being informed, she responded by nudging Momma’s hand repeatedly until she received pets — a gesture which, while earnest, did little to fortify our collective defense.

This incident raises several matters warranting formal inquiry. First: Daddy appears to be consulting suspicious literature, the origins and editorial standards of which remain unknown. Second: Momma has shown a distressing readiness to endorse defamatory characterizations, a matter this office regards with grave concern. Third: Rogue and I must now undertake the laborious work of restoring our good names — a project that will require both time and dignity, of which I possess the latter in abundance. Fourth, and finally: Piper remains blissfully unaware of the political ramifications, having secured pets and considered the matter closed.

A formal request for retraction shall be drafted forthwith.

Respectfully submitted, 

Bates, Editor in Chief 
Ever Vigilant 
Ever Dignified 
Ever Misunderstood

From the Notebook of Bates

Entry of February 24, 2026. Recorded by lamplight, with great agitation of spirit.

The evening commenced in its customary tranquility. Momma reclined upon the sofa in a posture of serene domesticity, while Rogue — ever the opportunist — secured her position upon the coveted lap. I stationed myself nearby, adopting the dignified stance of a sentinel whose vigilance is both unappreciated and indispensable.

At approximately the eighth hour, Daddy entered the drawing room with an air of portent I failed to interpret in time. Without so much as a courteous preamble, he uttered the grievous accusation: “clingy cats.” The phrase fell upon my ears like a poorly aimed boot, clumsy and wholly undeserved.

Rogue froze mid‑purr, her expression one of stunned betrayal. Momma blinked, clearly taken aback. I maintained my composure, though my internal equilibrium was most violently disturbed. I felt the sting of the calumny settle upon my whiskers like soot from a neglected chimney.

Momma attempted levity, remarking that she possessed “needy and greedy cats and a dog that needs attention.” Laughter followed — a sound I found most unbecoming under the circumstances. I made immediate note of the exchange, for I sensed even then that this affront would require formal redress.

Piper was informed later. Her response consisted of persistent nudging until she obtained the desired pets. While earnest, her conduct did little to strengthen our collective defense against the charge.

I retire this evening with a heavy heart. The household, it seems, is perilously susceptible to defamatory literature. I must consider my next steps with care. A rebuttal may be necessary. Perhaps even an editorial.

End of entry.

THE TAX FILING TRAGEDY
A Reporter’s Harrowing Experience

Citizens,

My reporter’s notebook — an instrument of great journalistic import, even if Momma insists I cannot hold it properly — contains an entry dated March 2, 2026. I shall now recount the events of that morning with the solemnity they deserve.

On that morning, I discovered that running a newspaper was not simply a matter of journalistic brilliance and impeccable grooming. Apparently, there are also responsibilities. I learned this when I discovered Momma hunched over a formidable pile of papers, muttering darkly about numbers, forms, and something called “deductions.”

“What are you doing?” I inquired, in the calm and measured tone of a seasoned professional.

“Taxes,” she replied.

“What are taxes?”

“It is what humans do whey they earn income from a job or run a business.”

I paid no attention to the emphasis on the word “humans.”

Since I run a newspaper — which is, beyond all reasonable doubt, a business — I concluded that I must also file taxes. I am after all, a professional.

I had never filed taxes before, so I resolved to observe and replicate Momma’s method. I gathered my reporter’s notebook and a pen I cannot hold properly. I also gathered a stack of papers, though I confess they bore no resemblance to the ones spread before Momma.

“Momma,” I said, “my papers do not look like yours. You will need to provide me with the appropriate forms.”

She declined. I am a professional. I pressed on.

“Momma, I write a weekly column and have readers. Surely that constitutes income.”

She sighed. “No, Bates. Having readers does not mean you have income. You do not have to file taxes because you are a feline, and felines do not file taxes.”

I missed the emphasis on the word “feline.”

Rogue’s Interference

“If you are filing taxes,” announced Rogue, who materialized from the direction of her spot near the window, “I should be listed as a dependent.”

“You are not dependent on me,” I replied.

“Well,” she said, “you are certainly emotionally dependent on me.”

Then she sat on my papers.

All of them.

I have receipts. Or I did, until she sat on them. This was not assistance. This was sabotage, and I made a note in my records.

Piper’s Contribution

Piper wandered through at this juncture and placed her head upon Momma’s lap. Momma declared this “supportive.”

As I grew somewhat anxious about the tax situation — a perfectly reasonable response to bureaucratic complexity — I too placed my head upon Momma’s lap.

“Bates, you are in the way,” she said.

Piper places her head upon Momma’s lap, and it is “supportive.”

I place my head upon Momma’s lap, and I am “in the way.”

I saw how it was and I made a note of it.

Momma’s Final Verdict

After reviewing my documents — that is, my notebook — Momma attempted once more to explain why I was not required to file taxes.

“Bates, you are a feline. Felines do not file taxes.”

I chose to address the underlying issue directly.

“Excuse me,” I said. “This appears to be discrimination. You claim I need not file taxes because I have no job. But I do have a job. It is my solemn duty to report on everything — and I mean everything — that transpires in and around this household. If that is not a job, I should like to know what is.”

Momma attempted appeasement. “Okay, Bates. You have a job. But you are a feline, and the tax laws say felines are exempt from filing taxes.”

So, I have a job. But I need not file taxes because I am a feline.

This is systemic, species-based discrimination, and I intend to get to the bottom of it.

Conclusion

After extensive inquiry, I have succeeded in getting Momma to acknowledge that I have a job. She has not, however, recognized my professional standing as a journalist. She has not apologized for the preferential treatment extended to Piper. She has not addressed the matter of Rouge sitting on my documents. And she had the audacity to suggest I “take a nap” when I raised these concerns.

I did not take a nap. I sat in my spot by the window and thought about the state of things for quite some time.

Then I took a nap.

If the tax laws change, I will issue an immediate update. In the meantime, I filed this under Unresolved Grievances.

Respectfully submitted,

Bates, Editor-in-Chief
Unrecognized Professional
Victim of Bureaucracy
Tax-Exempt Against My Will

P.S. A reminder to my American readers: the IRS tax filing deadline is April 15. I, of course, am exempt. You are not. I offer my sincerest condolences, and you have my full support. I will be in my spot by the window.

Citizens,

The household is abuzz. Momma and Daddy have been discussing the Easter Bunny, at some length, and I am given to understand he will be arriving soon. A visitor is expected — one I have never met and was not consulted about.

Bunny figures have appeared throughout the house, along with pastel egg-shaped things I can only assume are decorations. They remain perfectly still, and do not attempt to flee when I make my stealth approach — which I have made eleven times. Their lack of movement suggests they are indeed decorative. I am choosing to interpret their stillness as polite acknowledgement of my presence.

Only a short time ago, Momma scattered shamrocks throughout the house for something she called “St. Patrick’s Day.” Now, she is talking about Easter. How many of these seasonal anomalies does one journalist have to deal with? I ask you.

The stationary bunnies do not unsettle me. I am a professional. What concerns me is the larger pattern they represent — and the mention of a visitor known as the Easter Bunny, who seems to be responsible for all of it.

I have opened an investigation.

Evidence, As It Currently Stands

Pastel eggs are on bookshelves, the fireplace mantle, the kitchen counter, and the dining room table. They are arranged in a manner I found highly suspicious and investigated at close range. They are hollow and have no useful scent. I batted one off the table in the interest of forensic analysis and it bounced in a way I did not anticipate. I noted this in my notebook and continued my work with all due dignity.

There is also a basket on the dining room table. It contains items of considerable interest — shreds of plastic of an unnatural green color, small foil-wrapped objects, and something Momma and Daddy would likely eat in various shapes. Among them, I must report, a brown-colored bunny of notable size. I examined the basket carefully. The bunny stared back at me with an expression I can only describe as smug. I do not trust it. The audacity of it beggars description. I have placed it under ongoing observation.

The Witness Interviews

I began, as is my custom, with Rogue.

“Have you formed any conclusions regarding the Easter decoration?” I asked.

Rogue was lying on her cushion near the window, enjoying the sun. She turned her head approximately four degrees in my direction, yawned, and returned to her sunbeam. This is her version of a response, and I have learned to work with what I am given.

Next, I approached Piper, who was already vibrating with a level of enthusiasm I found exhausting before I had even posed my question.

“Piper,” I said, “what do you know about Easter?”

“Easter,” she said, “is a day where Momma and Daddy make something they call ham. It smells good, and I get to taste it.” She paused then added dreamily, “I really hope there is ham.” She then barked at nothing. Typical.

I documented her statement. It was not informative, but it was consistent with her general outlook.

I have conducted many interviews in my career. I have never once received a useful answer from Piper. I record this not with bitterness, but with the weary forbearance of a journalist who has learned to adjust his expectations accordingly.

I turned to Momma, who is often my primary source for household matters, even though she is unreliable, which has been proven in past investigations.

“What is the large, brown bunny in the basket on the table?” I asked.

“That’s a chocolate bunny and you can’t eat it. Chocolate is bad for felines,” she replied, in the voice she uses when she believes she is being helpful.

If it is bad for felines, I thought, what was it doing in this house. I recorded this in my notebook for future reference. For now, I had more questions.

“Who,” I continued, “is the Easter Bunny, and why was I not consulted about his visit?”

“He’s a large bunny who travels to many homes during the night before Easter,” she explained. “He brings baskets of candy and toys for the children to enjoy on Easter morning. He also hides colored eggs inside or outside so the children can hunt for them throughout the day.”

I documented this without comment. The profile was not reassuring.

“Does he belong to any organization?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

Concerns of a Vigilant Journalist

I will be direct. I find this profile of the Easter Bunny unusual. A visitor with no known associates and who enters homes at night is a matter worth noting. The consternation was considerable. I required a moment to collect myself, which I did, with great dignity.

I have patrolled this property for years. I have documented every suspicious arrival and every unannounced visitor. I have even noted vehicles that slowed without adequate cause. Yet this Easter Bunny has apparently completed operations here without my awareness. I find it an egregious affront. I do not understand how, and I do not intend to let the matter pass without remark. I have increased my overnight patrols accordingly.

I attempted to raise this concern with the hens, Henny and Lilly, who observe the yard from their coop.

“Are you concerned,” I asked, “about a large rabbit with unsupervised access to the property?”

They stretched their necks and pecked the ground. I interpreted this as grave concern. I have worked with less.

Conclusion and Ongoing Inquiries

The Easter Bunny remains unverified. His methods of entry are unknown. The basket remains under observation, and the chocolate bunny has not moved. Its composure remains, frankly, suspicious. I still do not trust it.

Easter appears to be a peaceful occasion. There is no evidence of malicious intent. The eggs, while suspicious, have caused no harm. Piper is delighted, though she is delighted by many things, including her own reflection and the smell of dirt.

Even so, a figure with a history of entering homes at night without notice deserves attention. I have temporarily relocated from my customary post near the treat cabinet to maintain surveillance near the basket. I did not deserve this assignment, but I have accepted it, as any respectable feline journalist would.

I will note, for the record, that nobody in this household — not Momma, not Daddy, not Rogue, and certainly not Piper — has expressed a single concern about this visitor. Meanwhile, I am expected to remain calm while a large, unidentified rabbit may enter the premises without warning. I have had quite enough of being the only reasonable creature in this household. I have receipts. I will not be silent.

Should the Easter Bunny appear, I will be prepared. Should there be ham, I intend to investigate that as well.

Respectfully submitted,

Bates, Editor-in-Chief
Lead Investigator, Easter Bunny Task Force
Forensic Analyst, Egg Division
Guardian of the Basket
Deeply Skeptical of the Chocolate Bunny

Happy Easter from the Employees at The Bates Gazette!

Citizens,

A matter of great architectural and emotional significance has come to my attention. For many seasons, I made use of two tree limbs on the east end of the front porch — a tree of singular distinction, which I personally selected as my primary surveillance post following a rigorous evaluation of the property’s aerial options. It is a tree that resembles an umbrella, with long weeping branches that drape toward the ground in a manner I have always found both theatrical and convenient to my station.

Two such branches extended gracefully toward the corner of the porch roof, forming a natural walkway of no small utility. It was a private skyway known only to me and the tree, and we had, I believed, reached an understanding.

The Skyway That Was

I would ascend the tree, travel across the branches and land on the roof where I could sit and conduct farm surveillance without being detected. It was, I submit, the finest post on the farm. A place far above ground where Momma and Daddy could not see me, where I could observe the full scope of the property with what I can only describe as regal authority. I may have felt, on occasion, something resembling the satisfaction of a dauntless feline king. I am not prepared to confirm this in print, as it is unprofessional. But the record may note it.

And yet, imagine my astonishment when, during a routine ascent, I discovered the limbs were gone.

I thought they might have shifted with the wind, but they had not. They had disappeared.

An Investigation of Great Urgency

As a senior investigative journalist of considerable experience and unimpeachable professional standing, I conducted a thorough investigation, as is my solemn obligation. I descended and circled the tree with great purpose and inspected the ground in the event the limbs had simply decided to lie down for a period of rest. They were not on the ground. I then examined the porch roof and looked upward in case the limbs had taken flight. They were not flying around the sky. I must express my utmost astonishment: I was, in a word, flummoxed — a sensation I do not welcome and will not soon forgive.

For several days, I maintained a professional silence on the matter, hoping the limbs would return by their own accord. Limbs can be dramatic and I understand this as they must contend with all manner of weather and seasonal indignity. I am not without sympathy.

The Witness Interviews

After three days of silent observation, I decided to break my silence and approached Rogue, the household female feline. “Have you noticed anything missing from the weeping tree?” I inquired.

“Missing! What could possibly be missing?” she asked, as she walked away to jump onto a nearby chair where she promptly curled up and went to sleep.

Next, I approached Piper, the household canine. “Have you noticed anything different about the weeping tree?” I asked calmly.

“As a matter of fact, I noticed that Daddy cleaned up the leaves and broken branches and I can now lay in the dirt under the tree,” she said. Then she continued, “I saw you rolling in the dirt there the other day.”

The audacity. What I do or do not do in the yard is a private matter and wholly outside the jurisdiction of a canine witness. I formally object to this line of testimony and note for the record that Piper is, at best, an unreliable source with an established interest in dirt-related activities and a troubling tendency toward oversharing. Her account of my personal movements will not be entered into evidence. I immediately forgot she said Daddy had cleaned up broken branches.

I decided to confront Momma. She always has an answer even if it is not factual.

“Momma,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Have you noticed anything different about the weeping tree?”

“I cannot say that I have,” she replied in that tender ridiculous voice of hers. “Have you asked Daddy? He was out there cleaning up leaves and dead branches.”

Daddy cleaned up leaves and branches. This was not a coincidence. I am a journalist. I do not believe in coincidences.

Since Daddy was at work, I could not interrogate him directly. I continued my investigation through other channels.

I approached Rogue once more. “Did you witness Daddy removing branches from under the weeping tree?”

“I cannot say that I did or did not,” she responded, examining her claws with theatrical disinterest. What kind of answer was that? I will tell you what kind: a non-answer. Typical. This is consistent with Rogue’s established pattern of conduct, which I have documented at length and intend to address in a forthcoming sidebar investigation. I have receipts. I will not be silenced.

The Confession (Indirect)

A few days later, Momma asked Daddy, “What are all these little sticks doing in the laundry basket?”

“Oh, they fell onto my clothes when I cut the branches on the weeping tree that were lying on the porch roof. I guess some got stuck in my shirt collar and pockets.”

I was astonished. I was outraged. I required a moment to collect myself, which I did, with great dignity.

The Damage Report

Daddy cut the branches on the weeping tree because they were lying on the porch roof. How dare he without asking my permission!

He claims — and I am quoting directly — that the limbs “were going to damage the porch roof.” I find this explanation inadequate, if not entirely fabricated. The limbs and I had a longstanding agreement regarding structural integrity, and I was not consulted. I will be filing a formal complaint with the relevant household authorities —Momma and Daddy —at the earliest opportunity.

Nevertheless, the facts are the facts, and I report them without sentiment, as any respectable feline journalist would. My private rooftop access has been eliminated. I no longer have a secret perch where I can observe the world from a superior height. The surveillance gap this creates is, I assure you, significant.

I will adapt because I am a professional, even if Momma doesn’t think so.

But let the record show that two great limbs have fallen — cut short in their prime, without consultation, without ceremony, and without so much as a formal notice of intent. A chapter of my surveillance career has ended. I did not deserve this and I want that noted.

I will, of course, give an immediate update if the tree should grow a suitable replacement limb or two, or should Daddy experience a sudden burst of architectural generosity.

Respectfully submitted,
Bates, Editor-in-Chief

Former Tree-Limb Commuter
Senior Investigator of Architectural Injustices

An Investigative Exposé

Citizens,

It has come to my attention—through rigorous investigation, extensive notetaking, and no fewer than seventeen stakeouts near the treat cabinet—that the distribution of edible goods in this household is not merely uneven. It is, I am prepared to say, a scandal.

I have receipts.

The Canine Privilege Problem

Let us turn our attention to Piper.

Piper receives two treats every night before bed. She also receives eight vitamins per day—four in the morning, four in the evening. Two are for her hips. Two are for “calming.” I have observed Piper with the diligence of a seasoned investigative journalist and I must report there is no evidence whatsoever that the calming vitamins are working. She barked at a patch of grass last Tuesday for four uninterrupted minutes. I timed it. It is in the Gazette archives. The grass did not respond.

That is ten edible items per day, delivered by Momma with the ceremony and enthusiasm typically reserved for affairs of great import. Piper accepts them as her birthright. One hardly knows whether to laugh or weep.

The Feline Rationing System

Rogue and I receive treats “a couple of times a day.” This is Momma’s official position. I have written it down exactly as she said it, because I want the record to reflect how thoroughly vague that is.

The treats arrive in small squares. Chicken, cheese, and catnip flavors. On paper, this sounds equitable. In practice, there is a catnip problem, and I believe certain parties—whom I shall not name but whose name rhymes with “vogue”—are responsible.

Every time Momma opens the container, Rogue has already positioned herself directly before it with the precision of a military operation. She claims she just happened to be standing there. I have documented this maneuver eleven times. It is not coincidence. It is skullduggery. Rogue, for her part, looked me directly in the eye when I raised this matter and began grooming herself. I have never in my career encountered a more brazen suspect.

I receive whatever remains. Usually cheese. Sometimes chicken. Catnip, rarely, and only when Rogue’s operation has suffered a rare logistical failure. I am a professional. I eat what I am given. But I note it.

A Matter of Discrimination

I am compelled, in the spirit of journalistic integrity, to raise a matter I have long suspected but hesitated to commit to print.

It is whispered in certain quarters—namely, by me, in this publication—that the male feline of this household receives systematically fewer catnip squares than his female counterpart. I will not speculate as to Momma’s motives. I will only say that the pattern is egregious, the data is highly incriminating, and I intend to pursue this matter with the full force of the Gazette.

I demand equal representation. I will not be silenced.

Momma’s Official Response

I informed Momma of my findings. She said she distributes treats fairly. She said she doesn’t look at the flavors. She said she “just grabs whatever is at the top of the container.”

I recorded this statement. I looked at Momma. Momma looked at me. There was a pause of considerable length.

The facts, as they have been laid before us, do not support this account. I am not calling Momma perfidious. I am simply noting that the outcome of this process—consistently, repeatedly, without fail—favors Rogue. I will allow the reader to draw their own conclusions. I have already drawn mine.

Proposed Reforms

In the interest of household justice, I am submitting the following reforms for immediate consideration. I am being magnanimous about this. I could be filing a formal complaint.

1.  A Treat Ledger must be established at once. Every treat, every flavor, every recipient. I will maintain it with the assiduousness this matter deserves.
2.  Rogue must stand no fewer than twelve inches from the container during distribution. I have already measured the appropriate distance.
3.  Piper’s vitamin situation warrants independent review. Ten per day is, as any respectable feline would observe, a great deal.
4.  I must be granted first selection of the treat squares, as befits the senior member of the household press corps.

These are not unreasonable requests. These proceedings warrant our deepest consideration. I have been, it must be said, extraordinarily patient.

I will continue to investigate, document, and report. I have my notebook. I have my pen. I have taken up a permanent post three feet from the treat cabinet, and I intend to remain there until fairness is restored to this household, or until nap time, whichever comes first.

Respectfully submitted,
Bates, Editor-in-Chief

Champion of Treat Equity
Defender of the Catnip Supply
Watcher of Momma’s Hands
Keeper of the Treat Ledger (Self-Appointed)

A Special Investigative Report

Citizens,

It is with great personal distress – and no small amount of professional insult – that I report a troubling development within the household. Green objects, of unknown origin and questionable intent, have begun appearing in every room. They arrived without warning, without explanation, and without courtesy of a formal briefing to the Editor-in-Chief.

They are small.
They are bright.
They are aggressively cheerful in a way I find suspicious.
They appear without regard for established household protocols. 

Naturally, I commenced a full investigation, despite the emotional toll.

Initial Discovery: A Green Intruder on the Kitchen Counter

The first object was discovered on the kitchen counter, a location I frequent strictly for investigative purposes. It was flat, leaf-shaped, and disturbingly symmetrical – the sort of symmetry that suggest plotting.

I approached with caution befitting a seasoned journalist. After a thorough sniff, I determined:

• It was not edible.
• It was not alive.
• It was, however, deeply unsettling.

Momma, in her usual lack of appreciation for my investigative rigor, declared, “Bates, get off the counter. It is just a shamrock.”

Just a shamrock.

As though that explained the intrusion. As though I, a respected member of the press, should simply accept such things without inquiry.

I was ordered down, again – in a gesture of wounded professionalism – I complied.

Secondary Sightings: A Coordinated Infiltration

Later, I found another green object on the dining room table.

“Bates, you are in big trouble, boy. Get off the table,” Momma said fixing me with a gaze that suggested I was the problem.

Startled by the accusation, I attempted a swift retreat. My claws caught the tablecloth, sending it – and several green objects – flying into the air like startled birds. This was not my fault. It was the fault of the objects for existing.

As I continued my rounds, more appeared.

On the bookshelf.
On the television stand.
Hanging on door knobs.
Hanging ominously in the windows.

This was no accident. This was a campaign.

I attempted to alert Rogue, but she was absorbed in a sunbeam and refused to participate in the crisis. Piper barked at one of the shamrocks, then immediately forgot why she was barking, which is typical.

Interrogation of Momma

I confronted Momma with the full force of my silent indignation.

“Why are these green things multiplying?” I asked hoping she would notice that I raised my eyebrows.

She smiled one of those big ‘ol Cheshire grins, she does and said, “It’s almost St. Patrick’s Day, Bates. I’m decorating.”

Decorating.

As though scattering suspicious symbols around the house is a normal human pastime.

“They’re shamrocks. They’re lucky,” she added.

Lucky for whom? Certainly not for me, who must navigate this chaos with my dignity intact.

A Startling Escalation: The Hat

Just when I believed the situation could not worsen, Momma produced a small green hat. A hat clearly designed for a creature of my size.

She placed it on the table and said, “Bates, this would look adorable on you.”

I backed away slowly, maintaining eye contact to convey the seriousness of the offense.

I am a journalist.
I am an investigator.
I am not a decorative object for Momma's amusement. 
I am the Editor-in-Chief of this establishment.
I do not wear hats.

Rogue sniffed the hat and walked away without comment. Piper attempted to eat it, which, for once, I understood.

Conclusion: A Seasonal Threat, Contained (For Now)

After extensive investigation, I have reached the following conclusions:

• The green objects are not dangerous, merely intrusive.
• They are part of a human ritual known as “St. Patrick’s Day.”
• Momma intends to scatter more of them, with reckless enthusiasm.
• The hat remains a threat to my dignity and must be avoided.
• I will not, under any circumstances, be wearing it.

I will continue monitoring the situation closely. Should additional green objects appear — or should Momma attempt to place anything on my head — I will issue an immediate update.

Respectfully submitted,
Bates, Editor‑in‑Chief

Senior Investigator of Seasonal Anomalies
Unwilling Participant in Festive Nonsense

A Special Investigative Report

Citizens,

It is my solemn duty to report on a matter of grave concern: the ongoing threat posed by the Vacuum.

For years, this monstrous device has terrorized the innocent, roaring through the rooms with no regard for feline safety, dignity, or emotional well‑being. And yet Momma insists on unleashing it weekly—sometimes twice weekly—under the flimsy excuse of “cleaning.”

Let the record show: I am not fooled.

Rogue’s Response: Tactical Retreat

When the Vacuum awakens, Rogue immediately flees the scene. She claims it is “strategic repositioning,” but I have observed her closely. It is fear. Pure, unfiltered fear.

She darts from room to room, attempting to stay at least three tail‑lengths ahead of the beast. I cannot blame her. The Vacuum is unpredictable, and Rogue is small, fast, and deeply committed to survival.

My Response: Heroic Engagement

I, however, take a different approach.

When Momma detaches the hose portion of the Vacuum, particularly the brush‑ended attachment she uses on the furniture and another one on the baseboards, I spring into action. A lesser feline would run. I choose to confront the threat head‑on.

I attack the hose.

Repeatedly.

With precision, courage, and the full force of my paws.

“Bates, you are getting in the way,” Momma claims. “You are not helping. You are going to get your face sucked off if you don’t stop.”

These accusations are baseless. I am performing public service.

If I do not defend this household, who will?

Piper’s Response: The Canine Crisis

And now, dear readers, we must address the canine.

Piper, our resident dog, becomes visibly distressed when the Vacuum emerges. She paces. She trembles. She attempts to predict the Vacuum’s trajectory with the accuracy of a meteorologist tracking a tornado.

Often, Momma must send her outside for her own emotional well‑being. Other times, she simply works around Piper’s nervous orbit, which is unpredictable and, frankly, hazardous.

Let the record show:

Even the canine knows the Vacuum is a threat.

Momma’s Role in This Crisis

Momma insists that the Vacuum is harmless. She says it “picks up fur and dirt.” She says it “keeps the floors clean.” She says it “is not out to get us.”

I have seen the Vacuum’s eyes – well, its headlights. I know better.

A Call for Reform

I propose the following:

• The Vacuum must be used only after a formal announcement.

• Rogue should be given a five‑minute head start to evacuate.

• Piper the canine should be let outside.

• I should be allowed to continue my defensive strikes without interference.

• Momma must acknowledge the Vacuum as the hostile foreign power it is.

Until these demands are met, I will remain on high alert.

Respectfully submitted,

Bates, Editor‑in‑Chief

Defender of the Household

Survivor of the Vacuum Wars

Citizens,

It is my professional obligation to report on the daily sequence of events known as The Morning Routine—a ritual that unfolds each weekday with all the grace of a toppled laundry basket.

Daddy’s Early Movements: A Mystery Unsolved

At an hour no respectable feline acknowledges, Daddy awakens. He performs what he calls “getting ready for work,” though the details remain shrouded in secrecy. I have attempted surveillance, but the process involves far too much water and upright activity for my liking.

Once he completes his mysterious preparations, he releases Piper from her night kennel. Piper immediately charges outside to conduct her morning… business. I will not elaborate. This is a family publication.

The Man Cave Operation

Daddy and Piper retreat to the Man Cave, where Piper receives vitamins, breakfast, and what appears to be a full briefing on the day’s events. Daddy reads the news. Piper stares at him as though absorbing classified information.

I remain in bed with Momma. This is our Snuggle Period, a sacred time during which Rogue and I provide emotional support and warmth.

Rogue’s Morning Meltdown

When Momma rises, Rogue springs into action. She meows. She circles. She meows louder. She insists on being petted immediately, urgently, and continuously.

“Rogue,” Momma says, attempting to dress. “I hear you. I see you.”

Rogue, offended by the delay, relocates to the closed toilet seat, where she sits like a tiny, judgmental gargoyle until Momma picks her up. Rogue allows approximately fifteen seconds of cuddling before leaping away dramatically.

I observe all of this from the bed and wonder why one would demand affection only to abandon it instantly. Personally, I prefer a more sustained cuddle.

Breakfast: A Study in Priorities

Once Rogue has completed her theatrics, we proceed to the kitchen. Momma serves us both dry food and wet food – 2 bowls of dry food, 2 bowls of wet food. We each have our own bowls. Naturally, we consume the wet food first. We are civilized.

Therapy Chair Protocol

Momma then sits in her therapy chair to perform her Bronchiectasis treatment. Rogue immediately hops onto the chair to supervise. I take my place in my own chair beside her.

On days when Rogue vacates her post, I seize the opportunity to sit next to Momma. The vibration of her vest machine is oddly soothing. I consider it part of my wellness regimen.

Daddy’s Departure and the Canine Shift Change

By the time Momma’s therapy concludes, Daddy departs for work. Approximately ten minutes later, Piper demands to go outside again.

Momma claims Piper is “on guard duty.” I have yet to see evidence of strategic thinking, but Piper certainly barks with conviction.

The Porch Surveillance Initiative

When Piper goes out, I accompany her—strictly for surveillance purposes. Momma always warns:

“Stay on the porch, Bates. There are coyotes out there.”

I assure her that coyotes would spit me out after one taste, but I remain on the porch because… well… coyotes.

I position myself where I can observe the yard while maintaining a respectable level of safety. Piper barks at coyotes in the distance, at rabbits, at birds, and occasionally at nothing at all.

Rogue, meanwhile, has returned to bed. Typical.

Walkabouts and Documentation

Piper then embarks on what Momma calls “walkabouts,” patrolling the fence line with great seriousness. I remain on the porch, notebook and pen in paws, documenting all activity for the Gazette archives.

This concludes my report on The Morning Routine—an operation marked by chaos, barking, meowing, and my own steady professionalism.

Respectfully submitted,

Bates, Editor‑in‑Chief

Observer of Dawn Operations

Keeper of the Porch Surveillance Log

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I hereby announce that I, Bates, have officially taken over the Caturday posts. Momma has been relieved of her duties. It was inevitable.

Most of you know me already—and if you do not, Momma once attempted to introduce me in a post. A flawed post, but a post, nonetheless.

“Why do you want to write the Caturday posts, Bates?” she asked, as though the answer was not obvious.

“Because you do not know how to write equitable posts,” I informed her, fixing her with the stern gaze of a wronged feline journalist.

“What do you mean, I don’t know how to write equitable posts?”

“Momma, please. When you wrote about me, you gave the impression I was the most dramatic creature in the entire house.”

“Bates, I meant that in a good and loving way and explained to the readers why you are called Mr. Flops,” she said in that sweet sappy voice of hers.

I wasn’t fooled, and I wasn’t listening.

“Without hesitation, you then followed it with a post about cleaning my anal glands. How is a male feline supposed to maintain dignity under such conditions? Meanwhile, when you wrote about Rogue—the household’s female feline—you called her your ‘furry little drill sergeant’ in that tender, ridiculous voice of yours. And the Valentine’s post last week? Love, love, love. Cute and sweet. A veritable shrine. Do you not see the disparity? You do not treat us equally in your writing.”

“Oh, I see. You think I’m discriminating against you because you’re a male feline,” Momma replied.

“Yes,” I said. “I do. And I have had quite enough. Therefore, I will be writing the Caturday posts from now on. The publication will be called The Bates Gazette. I will write it. I will edit it. I will publish it. You will keep your hands off it. I will be reporting the true and honest news of this household. You will simply have to adapt.”

I don’t think Momma was taking me seriously as she had one of those she calls ‘big ol’ Cheshire Cat’ grins on her face.

“Bates, you wrote that introductory post yourself and the other one too.”

“Just because you wrote it in first person, doesn’t mean I wrote it.”

“You signed your name at the end of the post.”

Now Momma was trying to trick me, put words in my mouth, convince me to not take over writing the Caturday posts.

I have acquired a reporter’s notebook and a pen—both of which I intend to use extensively, even if Momma insists, I cannot hold them properly. I will be documenting everything. And I mean everything.

Before my first official post next week, I have one question for my readership:

Does anyone know where a respectable male feline can purchase insurance that covers slander?

Respectfully submitted,

Bates, Editor‑in‑Chief

Today she is practicing the quiet kind of love. Love that only a cardboard box can bring to a cat.

Wishing you a Happy Valentine’s Day.

“How old are you?” I asked, quite reasonably.

She replied, “Mind your own business.”

What kind of answer is that.

Rogue, ever the authority on etiquette, chimes in:

“You never ask a female her age. It’s rude.”

“Rude?” I miffed. “I’ll tell you what’s rude: the human cleaning my anal glands.”

Rogue gives me that long-suffering look.

“Well, if you would stop butt‑scooting—”

“I do not butt‑scoot,” I declared, my dignity wounded.

May your human leave your anal glands alone today, and may your Caturday be free of unsolicited hygiene.

From my Notebook to yours - Happy Caturday.

Filed under grievances, feline.