A trip to the Mobies

The bacation hadn’t started out quite how we’d imagined – in the middle ob a blizzard. There had been a little too much trabel, a little too much noise, WAY too much snow wiff freezing temps, and not nearly enuff qwiet corners to sit and fink. I could tell he was doing that polite Reuben fing—making the best ob it while holding all his big feelings berry neatly inside.

Then all ob a sudden there was knock on the hotel room door. Special Delibery for Reuben! The Ratty Box found us on bacashun and the new box was here… Instead ob hiding in our hotel room, we went opened up the box and went to the mobies!

The lights dimmed, the world softened, and suddenly eberyfing slowed down. There was popcorm—real popcorm—and camdy. Brux and Bites!! A real faborite. Reuben settled right in, paws tucked, eyes bright, nibbling one piece at a time like each kernel deserbed proper considerashun.

I watched his shoulders relax. His whiskers twitched. The day shifted.

His brothers leaned close, sharing popcorm and opinions about the mobie (some louder than others), and Reuben just sat there in the middle ob it all, content at last. No rushing. No expectations. Just togetherness, warmff, crumbs, and the low hum ob a happy place.

Sometimes the best bacations aren’t about where you go. They’re about piboting, adjusting, and ending the day wiff popcorm on your paws and peace in your heart. And snacks.
That’s when Reuben’s birffday bacation truly got better.

*Ratty Box doesn’t usually track you down whereber you are, but it’s totally reliable getting to the home address you gib them. Fank you Ratty Box!!




Life choices


Reuben picked the wrong time for his birffday bacation.

Back home it’s warm, calm, and absolutely balmy… and here he is, standing in dirty snow dat has clearly seen fings, wondering how his life choices led to this exact moment. His scarf is stylish, but thin, his hat is decorative at best, and his birthday spirit is hanging on by a berry thin thread.

He imagined bakeries. He imagined qwiet tables, warm bread, maybe a polite candle. Instead, he got slush, wind, and snow that immediately soaks into your bones and refuses to leabe. Each step is a slow trudge ob determination, dignity, and mild regret.

Still, it is his birthday bacation, and Reuben is noffing if not committed. He will see this fru. He will stand here. He will endure. And later—much later—he will remind eberyone dat this was not his idea.

Some birffdays are cake.

Some birffdays are character-building.

Back up… did someone say cake?

Barry Barometer


“Barry Barometer here…reporting remotely for Marty News Network in the middle ob a blizzard. It’s really cold and the power might go out, so make sure you hab some room temperature snacks ready for the next few days. Crackers. Dry cereal. That one snack you don’t really like but will eat because it’s there.

Do not try to trabel. Eben if you fink, “I can probably make it,” you probably cannot, so don’t eben try. The snow is piling up, the wind is doing whatever it wants, and visibility is… not great. I am outside and immediately regretted being on this assignment.

If you are inside, stay inside. If you are already warm, please remain warm. If you are not warm, consider adding a sweater, or two sweaters, or quietly wrapping yourself in a blanket and accepting the situation.

Conditions are harsh, and morale is being held together by snacks and determinashun.

This has been the Barry Barometer. Everybody stay safe.

I’m going back inside now. “

Were you wondering??


What was in the box??

The crystal ducks came from a place Reuben would hab lubbed—long before they eber landed on his birffday table.

They’re from a tiny riverside market tucked between cobblestones, where the air smells like sugar and warm bread and time mobes a little slower. A glassmaker there works at dawn, when the light is soft, shaping molten color into small, shining fings. He says ducks are lucky. They float. They bob back up. They always find their way back to calm water.

Each duck is poured wiff a wish.

The pink one is for gentleness—for soft paws, patient hearts, and the ability to bring peace into a room just by being there.

The gold one is for adbenture—for noses that lean into new places, eyes that notice ebery detail, and a mind that delights in small wonders.

The red one is for joy—for celebration, for birthdays, for moments that sparkle and insist on being remembered.

When they cool, they’re wrapped carefully and sent out into the world, waiting for someone who needs exactly those wishes.

And somehow, wiff all the improbability ob it, they found their way to Reuben. Lined up neatly in front ob him, catching the light, like they knew. Like they’d always known this was where they were meant to be.

Three little ducks. Three qwiet wishes.

And one berry good birthday boy.

More Birffday fun!

Yesterday Dougie brought ober a beautiful card and cake decoration his illustrator made for me, plus our friend Aimee brought me a present. I feel so lubbed, birffdays are pretty good, we should hab them more often!

Fank you eberybody for making it such a special day!!


Birffday

Fank you all so much for the birffday wishes!! Dis pamcake tower is so good, I wish you were all here and I would share it wiff you.
I really would, but maybe mom would make me another one if you guys eated it all. …right, mom?

Happy Birffday Reuben!!

Reuben’s third birthday is kind ob a big deal.

Not just a cupcake-and-candle situation, but a sit up straight, wear your best party hat, this matters kind ob moment.

Reuben took his place at the table like a seasoned guest ob honor—calm, dignibied, paws politely resting near the cake. The whipped cream pamcake tower wiff the glowing “3” candle was clearly the star, but Reuben pretended not to notice. He has always been good at qwiet celebrations, the kind where you soak in the joy instead ob chasing it.

Dougie was there, ob course, bobbing around wiff excitement and offering commentary nobody asked for. Teddy showed up too, looking extremely pleased to be included and wearing his tiny party hat wiff great seriousness. Eberyone agreed Teddy understood the assignment.

There was laughter. There was whipped cream. There was a moment where someone leaned a little too close to the cake and eberyone gasped. But nothing bad happened—just pure, happy chaos.

Three years ob Reuben: ob early mornings, careful obserbation, Paris adbentures, bakery dreams, and always being the first one ready while waiting patiently for the others to catch up – the best big brother anyone could eber hope for.

Happy third birthday, my sweet Reuben!! You are deeply lubbed.

(And ob course it’s on a Tuesday)

Balemtimes Ebe


For Balentimes Day, Barry had decided he was done waiting for lub to magically find him.

If lub was coming, it was going to hab to walk right up to his tiny wooden table and introduce itself properly.

He’d spent all morning preparing.

The gold “B” marquee light (borrowed) glowed behind him like he was the star ob his own romantic special. Paper hearts floated in the air — some taped, some glittered, somef suspiciously held up wiff dental floss. Rose petals were scattered dramatically, though Fish had tried to eat three ob them because “they looked artisanal.”

He practiced his lines.

“Hello. I am emotionally available.”“No rush. I can wait.”“I enjoy quiet cafes and respectful eye contact.”

Ebery now and then someone would pass by. Barry would straighten up, place both paws politely on the edge ob the table, and give his softest, most dignified smile.

One bold admirer leaned in.

Barry’s whiskers twitched.

There was a tiny nose boop.

A gentle kiss.

Barry froze. Then blushed so hard his ears practically matched the roses.

He dropped a coin into his own tip cup. “For ambiance,” he whispered.

As the city lights twinkled behind him, Barry realized something important:

Lub doesn’t hab to be loud. It doesn’t hab to be fireworks.Sometimes it’s just a small table, a warm glow, and someone willing to sit wiff you.

And maybe… just maybe… A second kiss.

Balentimes Ebe was officially a success.

The Aftermaff

Eben after the final whistle blew and the last bet slip was torn in haff, Reuben remained at the desk, qwietly surbeying the aftermaff ob the biggest night ob the season.

All around him: chaos. Crumbs. One berry confused intern asking why a rat was legally allowed to operate a betting enterprise.

In front ob him: cheese. So much cheese.

He slid the final payout across the table wiff a professional nod. “Good game,” he said, sincerely. Then he pulled his ledger close and did the maff one last time. His whiskers twitched.

Fish peeked over the edge ob the desk. “Did… did we do okay?”

Reuben didn’t answer right away. He simply reached out and stacked another slice onto the pile, slow and deliberate. Then another.

Barry gasped. “Oh.”

“I neber chase losses,” Reuben said. “I neber panic. And I neber bet against a second-half adjustment.”

The stadium lights dimmed to a glow. The game was over. The noise faded into history. But Reuben’s cheese stack stood tall, solid, and extremely earned. He called in a crew to start loading up his winnings.

Some rats chase glory. Some chase snacks. Reuben chased probability. And tonight, probability paid in cheese.

Super Bowl LIX

The boys arribed at the Super Bowl absolutely thrilled, because eberyone had told them they were going to LIX and no one bothered to explain that it was a Roman numeral and not a promise ob unlimited licks. Barry had spent the entire flight practicing dramatic tongue stretches. Fish had packed fibe emergency napkins. Reuben had qwietly adjusted his notebook and said nuffing.

Now here they were, behind the MNN newsdesk, staring out at a massive stadium that offered zero licks and an alarming amount ob yelling.

Barry leaned into his headset. “So… when do the licks start?”

Reuben didn’t look up. “They don’t. This is football.”

Fish blinked. “Is football cheese-related?”

“No,” Reuben said, flipping a page. “But betting is.”

That’s when ebryone realized Reuben had been busy. Berry busy.

While Barry was still mourning the lack ob licks and Fish was snacking on somefing that resembled cheese that he found on the floor, Reuben had been studying the game. Charts. Notes. Tiny arrows. A very serious column labeled Cheese Risk vs Cheese Reward. He cleared his throat and leaned toward the mic.

“Alright,” Reuben said, whiskers twitching. “Here’s what’s happening. Momentum matters. Weather matters. Coaching decisions matter. And anyone who bets against a dramatic fourff-quarter comeback is playing a dangerous game wiff their cheddar.”

Barry stared. “When did you learn all that?” Reuben tapped the stack ob papers.

Fish nodded solemnly. “He’s been studying.”

By kickoff, Reuben was fully in his element, calmly explaining spreads, probabilities, and why one tiny misstep could cost someone their entire gouda future. People nearby started listening. Someone slid him a pretzel. Another whispered, “That rat knows fings.”

Barry straightened his notes, suddenly proud. Fish guarded the betting slips like treasure.

They might hab been duped by LIX. They might hab come for licks…but as the lights blazed and the game roared on, one fing was clear: Reuben wasn’t here for snacks. Reuben was here to win cheese. And he was gibbing great color commentary.