(Filed under: Tactical Debriefing and General Disappointment)
To all residents of this house, this porch, and this chaotic dimension:
Yesterday, the Kingdom stood on the brink of war. A thing—possibly raccoon, possibly possessed loofah—crossed into MY sacred yard like it paid rent. I was poised upon the porch with Lady Ziggy of Stardust (who was doing her usual impression of a potted plant), when the beast appeared.
Enter: Sir Tulio the Bold.
A former rogue turned sworn protector, he launched himself at the intruder with the speed of a caffeinated squirrel and the fury of a cat denied snacks. Tulio fought like a cat possessed by the spirit of a Kensington biker named Dennis. I issued battlefield orders from the porch. Not one was followed.
Standard.
He fought with valor, ferocity, and the wild screams of a creature who has nothing to lose and everything to prove. The yard became a battlefield. The moon trembled and, the creature fled like a poorly trained valet.
Did I, the Duchess, split the beast’s mandarina en gajos? No, loyal peasants—I chose not to. I stayed on the porch. My duty was to shield Ziggy, whose majestic brain is held together by duct tape and good vibes. I remained beside Ziggy, guarding her with the steel resolve of one who knows her manicure is worth more than this planet. Not because I’m scared—I have two fresh scratches and a scar shaped like Delaware—but because someone had to guard Ziggy, who would’ve wandered directly into the action thinking she was going to a brunch buffet.
Then—just when I thought it couldn’t get worse—Karen arrived. Late. From gods-know-where. Dragging some bag, disheveled, muttering curses in three languages and possibly speaking in tongues. And when I say “arrived,” I mean sprinted to the backyard with the unnatural speed of someone fueled by caffeine, fury, and orthopedic denial. She ran—actually ran, which is medically inadvisable—and began screaming things like, “OH NO YOU DON’T” and “WHY IS THIS HAPPENING AGAIN?”
She grabbed the hose.
Yes.
The hose.
And with the crazed battle cry of a suburban banshee, she doused the fighting beasts mid-duel like she was putting out a fire on the Titanic. She hosed everything. Tulio. The creature. Possibly herself. The backyard is now technically wetlands. Mud flew. Tulio yowled. The creature fled.
And Karen?
She stood there, soaked, breathless, victorious, and absolutely not cleared for running by any medical standard.
The Overcoat is proud of Tulio.
He shall receive one (1) half-sardine, a head pat, and my temporary absence of disdain. Long may he meow. Karen… well, she may have saved us, but she’ll still be judged.
Addendum to the Royal Communiqué
Approximately 12 minutes after the skirmish had ended—when the mud had settled, Tulio was licking his wounds under a shrub, and Karen was still panting like an asthmatic werewolf—Tartiflette burst out of the closet.
Not a closet. The closet inside the closet where she’d wedged herself during the chaos, presumably consulting ancient spirits or organizing buttons.
She stormed onto the porch, wild-eyed and hissing like a teakettle possessed.
“Did we WIN?!!”
Yes, dear subjects. She shouted this. Loudly. Three times. In two octaves.
Then she hurled herself into the yard, made battle cries only audible to bats, and fought the bush where the enemy used to be, delivering righteous vengeance on leaves that had seen nothing, done nothing, and frankly wanted no part of this.
She is still under the impression she won. We are letting her believe this.
Tulio has gone to bed. Ziggy is still on the porch, unmoved. Karen has declared her legs “not functional today.”
And I?
I remain ever vigilant.
— Charlotte, Duchess of the Arctic Circle
She Who Split Not the Mandarina, Yet Saved the Porch
“I didn’t run. I lunged with purpose.”
— Karen, while icing both knees
