(A live update from the War Room, formerly known as the laundry basket.)
Luna has officially entered what she refers to as “Pre-Operative Strategic Contingency Phase Alpha.” What that means in civilian terms: she’s making lists, a lot of them. There are highlighters involved. She’s pacing like a tiny furry general in the trenches, barking orders and aggressively scribbling on 
Post-its, which she then slaps directly onto the foreheads of her subordinates and she has a new clipboard (don’t ask where she got it), mumbling things like “rotate surveillance shifts” and “preheat blankets to 82 degrees precisely.” Every job is color-coded, categorized and cross referenced. There is a pie chart. Nobody knows what it’s for.
Charlotte, meanwhile, is lounging dramatically on the windowsill, a single sunbeam lighting her up like a tragic aristocrat in a telenovela. “She thinks she’s in charge” she mutters, loud enough for Luna to hear. “I let her. For morale.” Luna sighs.
Ziggy is assigned “Snoozing & Emotional Support (Heavyweight Division),” which she accepted without comment or visible emotion. Lilith has conjured at least three protection spells, two decaf by mistake, a pumpkin spice latte off season and one chaos vortex that may or may not eat all of Karen’s socks.
Tartiflette… well. Tartiflette is packing for the surgery. She is dragging a tote bag behind her filled with “essential hospital gear,” including:
• 1 plastic glittery tiara
• 3 croutons
• A rubber ducky of unknown origin
• Luna’s favorite pen (stolen mid-meeting)
• A juice box (leaking)
• A tiny neon pink sword made of pipe cleaners she has named “MURDER TWIZZLER”
She announces, “I WILL GUARD MOMMY WITH MY LIFE,” then promptly falls asleep inside the tote bag labeled “Essential Snacks.”
Willow is already on the couch in full nurse mode, heating pad under her hips, blanket across her paws, ready to supervise Karen’s recovery with quiet love and occasional grunts of disapproval when anyone disturbs her patient.
Ziggy now has a Post-it stuck between her ears that says: “HEAVYWEIGHT EMOTIONAL SUPPORT. STAY PUT.” She has not moved in three hours and has absorbed two sunbeams. Excellent work.
Lilith’s Post-it simply says: “CONTAIN THE VORTEX.” She hasn’t stopped glowing faintly green since.
Willow’s reads: “LEAD NURSE. NO SNIFFING THE INCISION.” She accepts her role with calm dignity, already stationed next to the heating pad, watching the room like a stoic field medic.
Charlotte’s reads: COMPLAINER IN CHIEF. She has not moved a paw to help but has offered three loud opinions, all of which were scathing, fabulous, and entirely unhelpful. What’s new.
Tarti’s reads NO, because, chaos boundaries.
We are not yet at DEFCON 1. But Luna is eyeing the emergency glitter stash, and Charlotte is sharpening her wit in the corner.
No one is emotionally prepared. Least of all Karen, who is not leaving for surgery until Wednesday.
Maybe send coffee? (“Not on Wednesday, NOT ON WEDNESDAY!!!! NOT AFTER TUESDAY AT MIDNIGHT!!!! – Luna)
