Helen Dunmore

From The Journal of the Velveteen Blanket

Dearest Bastet,
Sworn Protector of Sausages, Silencer of Human Delusion, Whiskered Oracle of Shelving Stability.

I fear this week has descended into chaos. A chaos more akin to a circus sideshow featuring seals than the usual levels of chaoticness found in this basement.

The shelves have vanished. Simply vanished. As if plucked by invisible paws or swallowed whole by the swirling void of poor interior design choices- which, frankly seems like a reasonable reaction to those metallic monstrosities. They were hardly made for lounging. Rather useless, in fact. Not fit for purpose. The only one who ever utilised them for such was Poe. And as you are quite aware she is a Dreamie short of a packet. Not I might add, the genius the bi-peds believe her to be. Suspicious without any shadow of a doubt. Something untoward is most definitely afoot.

Furthermore, Bastet, in the midst of this architectural unraveling, the mothers have begun cackling about TACOS. Constantly. Gleefully. Poe has been licking her paws in a way I find frankly, untrustworthy. There is talk of “ fake presidents” , “ toddler tantrums” and “Crying soggy burritos with a limp sausage.” How much more must I endure? It is highly disconcerting and if I might add, confusing. I declare that I no longer understand the rules of engagement in this house.

From what I can gather, this self-appointed President—whoever he may be, Dump? Punk? What does it matter he is clearly not president of me—is apparently offended by being called a chicken. Or a taco. Or perhaps both. I’m unclear on the details. It also sounds rather ridiculous, I mean, if he is some important bigwig, why on earth would he be so emotional. I mean to say, obviously not in our hierarchy, but in the bip-ed world, isn’t that emotional insecurity reserved solely for the female of the species? I simply don’t understand. But I suppose, in small summary, the fundamental point is that grown bipeds are collapsing in a heap over snack metaphors. We live in crumbling times, my trusted and only true friend. Crumbling times.

And as if this degenerative ridiculousness, Poe, the feathered turncoat, is now sidling up to Mummy Two. Tail all flounce and fluff, eyes all wide-eyed and pleading for skootches. It is honestly quite nauseating. I shall eat grass and show my disdain on the kitchen floor. I mean has she conveniently forgotten the Turkey Debacle. They abandoned us Typical. No staying power. No grit. Merely performance art in a puffball body.

Akela Jean Underland, meanwhile, is losing her entire empty mind about the missing shelves. She has screamed at every corner. Demanded sausages in each room. Howled into the refrigerator. I heard her attempt to contact the shelving spirits through the heating vent. No word yet on whether they responded. I shall update further when I have more information.

So, I am sure you can quite understand why I have taken to sitting in the laundry basket. Partially for surveillance. And, naturally, partially for existential reflection. But mostly because the blanket smells of a betrayal-in-waiting. And I need time to recover. In solemn, crumb-strewn peace.

Mummy One stroked my paw this morning and asked if I was “still grumpy.”

Still?

My mood is not a passing weather front. It is a climate in crisis.

Anyway, I shall scratch the suitcase. They will know what they’ve done. They will know that I fully, and absolutely comprehend what they are about to do. I have suspicions and they have never failed me before.

Yours in observational superiority and moderate shelf-related despair,
—Mowgli the Melancholy

(Fallen Prince of the Storage Realm, TACO-Adjacent Witness, Crumb-Hoarder in Chief.)

P.S. I have hidden three biscuits under the sofa. No one deserves them.

High Priest of the Pointed Paw, Reluctant Gourmand, Disruptor of Dreams.

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