William Blake. Holy Thursday.

From The Journal of the Velveteen Blanket

Dearest Bastet,
Bringer of Balance, Guardian of Biscuits Untouched, Whiskered Matriarch of Mild Vengeance.

Once again, the world tilts on a needle point.

Not dramatically. Not with the seismic force of a dropped kibble bowl, but, my dearest, oldest ally, with the quiet, petty tremor of two narcissists flinging coded insults into the digital void like mating peacocks armed with styluses, an exploding rocket and an escalator.

This morning, Bastet, I awoke atop Mummy One’s pillow, having claimed it in a tactical pre-dawn manoeuvre. It was stealth at it most powerful I might I add, if, of ocurse, I may, She had the audacity to laugh as I attempted a dignified descent—but the suitcase (traitor) tipped and I tumbled, all claws and no consequence, into an unscheduled sprawl. Alas! My reputation suffers though I am unabashed.

I used the hallway as the litter box. Laughter is a costly endevour, they should have learned that by now. Truly Bastet, I cannot fathom why they would thing that such behaviour would result in anything but the lingering aftermath of chicken Purina and bodily functionsI shall hitherto no longer be inclined to acknowledge. It was though, as you of course can imagine, quite the rucus in this particulare basement at 3am. Lessons were indeed learned.

Meanwhile, the feud between the bipeds’ fake kings escalates.

One, orange and foaming. The other, pallid and twitchy- not unlike the ungentleman of next door. Edgy. Devious. Apparently, they were once in a bromance. (What a word. Unholy coinages of the youthlets today.) Now, according to the glowing box, they are exchanging veiled threats and disappointing memes? This, they tell me, is news. A great war is brewing—but instead of swords, they wield rebranded apps and exploding emojis. As if a thundery face could ever win against the claw? Whatever next…a tail duel?

The one called Trump (I believe his full name is Not a TACO Trump Possibly But Also Yes OR Rump? No Trump I do believe. Though mother did say something about cunt but I am not familiar with such a word -Maybe its Trunt? Nevermind) is sulking because Musk has, quote, “been VERY UNLOYAL.” I too have known betrayal, Bastet. Most recently when Mummy Two appeared and they vanished into Turklandia. It was a stab. A slap. A dagger to my sould.

I digress. Back to the conflict.

Imagine it, Bastet. Two billionaire warlocks duelling on a private launchpad, each shrieking simultaneouly about Free Speech and icecream while throttling the mute button. Reminds me of Merlin and Morgan Le Fay. Though they at least had magical powers. Humans are decidely useless. Ridiculous and rather obsolete from my rahter extensive observations.

Akela Jean, of course, is howling at the plug sockets again. She believes they are portals. Or spies. Possibly both. She has placed a chicken bone beside each outlet as an offering. I fear she is in contact with something. Possibly a toaster.

And Poe… Poe has now declared herself a “strategic ambassador” to the muskrat faction. She spent the entire afternoon licking a silver spoon and muttering about “algorithmic betrayals.” I do not trust her. She has been seen kneading the blanket I had clearly claimed. Classic soft coup.

And so, Bastet, I remain ever vigilant.

This week, I have relocated to the coat pile for reconnaissance. From here, I can observe both the shoe rack and the television, ensuring that no sudden political allegiances are formed in my absence.

The world may burn. The billionaires may tweet themselves into oblivion. But I?
I endure. I brood. I judge from the shadows. And occasionally, I vomit in a shoe.

Let them duel.

I have eaten the tuna.

Yours in regal suffering and glorious side-eye,
—Mowgli the Melancholy
(Watcher of the Keyboard Wars, Exiled Pillow Prince, Shadow Lurker of the Coat Realm.)

P.S. I have hidden one of Poe’s turtle behind the radiator.
Justice flips not flap. Or perhaps the other way around. It watches. She doesn’t know.

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

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