Volume 23-

5:31 PM. The humans begin their ritual.

They call it “dinner.” I call it “The Hour of Loud Furniture and Sauce-Based Disasters.”

I position myself precisely eleven inches from the table—close enough for surveillance, far enough to avoid spaghetti collateral.

The toddler arrives first.

Chunk, the tiny warlord. Cheeks smeared with cheese remnants from a pre-dinner snack that was allegedly “accidental.”

He slams into his chair with the grace of a narwhal dropped from a helicopter. He begins his chant: “MAC. MAC. MAC AND CHEESE.”

No one has boiled water yet.

I flick my tail in silent judgment.

5:34 PM. The older one, Jack, begins negotiations.

He wants garlic bread. He wants it toasted. He wants it “not weird.”

I observe the power dynamic shifting. Dan opens the fridge. Ashley mutters a prayer.

5:37 PM. The toddler drops his spoon.

He demands a new one. Not because the original is dirty, but because it “was being mean.”

He kicks off his sock mid-bite. No one notices. I do. I log it in the internal audit.

5:40 PM. Someone puts peas on Chunk’s plate.

He looks at them as though they insulted his lineage.

He throws one. It lands near my paw.

I do not flinch.

I am a creature of dignity.

5:42 PM. Jack begins a monologue about how “broccoli feels like betrayal.”

Chunk reenacts his own birth using a paper towel and half a chicken nugget.

Ashley has left her body. Dan is googling “how to feed children without slowly unraveling.”

5:44 PM. I yawn. Loudly. Purposefully.

No one acknowledges my theatrical fatigue. Typical.

5:46 PM. Dessert is dangled like bait.

Chunk loses interest mid-cookie and begins chasing the cat toy I refused to engage with earlier. Jack complains that his ice cream is “too cold.”

Dan closes his eyes. Ashley opens the wine.

I stretch.

I have survived.

Dinner, once again, has happened to me.