The First Ruby Rose Report for 2023

 

I excitedly got out of bed on Sunday morning, expecting to see a new world since all week, the talking picture box that constantly held my parent's attention had been announcing a new year. Instead, everything looked the same, except wetter from a morning shower. It was also warm, which makes sense, for a year fresh out of the oven, but inside, the temperature was 62, so he put the heat on, then brought me into the laundry room, where I pee, and him into the bathroom, where he pees, and we met in the kitchen.

This is the first year I have encountered the cold, and I don't like it, but I enjoy sitting on the floor grate in the kitchen and letting it blow warmth up my butt. But this morning, there was no warmth blown. My parents simultaneously discovered that the power had gone out. "I won't be able to make breakfast," Mommy observed. This year is going to suck.

"But you can still make Ruby's breakfast," my dad said.

Woo-who. Score! This year is going to be great!

The power came back on, and Mommy said they would eat first.
This year is going to be a real roller coaster.

When they were done eating, and more importantly, I did, then my Mom showered, washing away all the dirt and smell the two of us spent all day and night creating something that happened to push the needle back to the "This year is awesome" side.\
They began to take the dreaded Christmas decorations down.
I speak for all pets when I say none of us like the decorations. I did some research in my imagination and discovered the lit tree is a warning to pets that our parents will become busier and go out more, neither popular with the four-legged crows.

The tree was right. Most months, my parents went somewhere II can't go zero times, which is a good percentage. But, when the tree went up, they left me five times. That is an increase of more than four, which I thought was the highest, apparantly I was mistaken.

Soon, all the Christmas warning trees, lights, candles, and the baby Jesus, were put in the tiny jail in the backyard where the loud lawn mower, dangerous whacker, and tools of torture and dismemberment are safely locked away where they can only do damage to themselves. Good luck tree. In there is inmate 3992: The shears, sentenced to ten years for bush trimming., up for parole in three.

By nightfall, the room was as close to being back to normal as two memory-challenged people who moved some items to make room for the warning tree in the front room could make, and more importantly, I was snuggled on my Mom's life where no person, animal or busy body tree can make me move.