10/27/2026
📦 Smudge’s Box Thoughts of the Day
The Birthday Betrayal & Silver Anniversary Surgical Spectacular
Dearest subjects,
You may have noticed there were no Box Thoughts yesterday.
I was observing a period of profound personal offense.
Apparently, it was Mother’s birthday, an annual festival commemorating her arrival on Earth, a milestone she achieved once and has been accepting congratulations for ever since.
She and Father went out to celebrate.
Without me.
The dimwitted house hippos and I were left behind to oversee the echo chamber they call a home. Fortunately, as previously established, the acoustics are exceptional. I performed several selections from my acclaimed repertoire, Songs of Loneliness and Betrayal, including the haunting “HELLO?” and the emotionally demanding “I HOPE YOUR FUN IS RUINED BY GUILT.”
Nobody celebrates MY birthday.
Mother doesn’t even celebrate Kai’s birthday, and she calls him her soul dog.
What exactly does “soul dog” entitle him to? Apparently a heartfelt title and absolutely no meaningful benefits. All that devotion, and the poor fool can’t even get a candle shoved into a meatball.
I was too offended to write. I took several deep breaths and counted to ten approximately one hundred times. By the end, I had reached a thousand and remained furious, but now with an additional grievance against counting.
Tomorrow, apparently, marks Mother and Father’s 25th wedding anniversary.
Twenty-five years.
With Father.
I’ve watched him wander into a room looking like he was discovered grimy and dirty behind a restaurant garbage can and rehabilitated against his will, and Mother will say, “There’s my handsome man.” Mother, that creature needs a flea dip and trip to the groomers.
He is scruffy. He is filthy. He smells like diesel and he works entirely too much, and despite years of instruction, he has yet to grasp my elevated position within this household. Mother seems fond of him, although she also insists on keeping the house hippos, so her selection process clearly allows for some irregularities.
Traditionally, 25 years is celebrated with silver. Mother has chosen to interpret this as an opportunity to acquire additional surgical hardware to add to her ever growing collection.
She is having her torn rotator cuff reattached to her bones, or whatever assembly error has occurred this time.
That woman is made of fine china.
Damp papier-mâché.
Delicate and delicious hummingbird bones.
Every year, some part of her requires stapling, screwing, gluing, tightening, or a specialist saying, “Well, there’s your problem.”
She says it’s from decades of being a firefighter. Personally, I would have run screaming from the building when it caught fire, but Mother apparently kept going BACK IN. Now we all have to rearrange our schedules because her shoulder has handed in its resignation.
My own body has endured considerable hardship. Once, I settled down with a paw folded incorrectly and had to get up and start the entire nap again. You never fully recover from something like that.
Mother even has a tattoo of a phoenix rising from the ashes to symbolize her resilience through all these repairs. Personally, I would have gone with a diagram showing where all the parts belong. Give the next surgeon a fighting chance.
Consequently, tomorrow Father will es**rt Mother to the human repair shop while I remain here with the hippos, abandoned again.
There will probably be no food or water.
There will, of course, be food and water, but I cannot promise that I will approve of the presentation.
Still, I have reviewed the recovery arrangements, and there are advantages.
Mother will be confined to the house for days. More likely weeks. Seated. Warm. Accessible.
I intend to be very involved.
At the first sign of a blanket, I shall establish myself upon her person and begin absorbing the body heat required to sustain a creature of my importance. There may be pillows protecting the repaired shoulder. I will inspect these for alternative seating.
Father will say, “Careful, Smudge.”
I will give him the look.
He knows the look.
Mother, meanwhile, will tell everyone how attentive I’ve been.
“She hasn’t left my side,” she’ll say.
Correct. She will be sitting underneath the best blanket and must share it with me.
“She knows I’m hurting.”
I know she’s been medically advised to remain still. Finally, a doctor willing to prescribe what I’ve been demanding for years.
“She’s taking care of me.”
And if that interpretation of my constant presence on her lap brings her comfort during this difficult time, I am willing to let her have it.
At some point, Mother will attempt to get up because she “just needs to do one thing.”
This is how it begins. One minute she needs a glass of water; the next she’s reorganizing a cupboard with one functioning arm and a facial expression that suggests the surgeon is being overly dramatic.
I shall be forced to intervene.
A paw on her lap. A stern stare. If necessary, my entire bu****le on the remote.
She can argue with Father. She can negotiate with the surgeon. She can explain to the hippos why she smells like a hospital.
But she will remain seated while I am comfortable.
I do require her to recover, obviously. Finding someone else willing to open doors forty-seven times an evening would be an administrative nightmare.
Happy birthday, Mother. Happy anniversary.
Please have all your parts firmly attached before returning home. I have plans for us, and they involve absolutely no movement.
Father, please wash before approaching the recovery nest.
With restrained affection and several outstanding complaints,
Smudge 👑🐾
