Hear ye, hear ye! On dis most glorious Thursday, King Baxter habs completed his official duties ob light stapling. The Royal Documents (grocery lists, cheese maps, and snack schedules) hab now been securely fastened wiff the red stapler.
Let it be known:
Signed & stapled,
King Baxter, Ruler ob Thursdays
It was a perfect sunny morning when the brothers set off for their Ratty Box Beach Day. It had been so hot, a day to cool off was necessary.
Reuben was the first to claim the surf-shack hut, peeking out like he was the official lifeguard on duty. He eben had his little crab to help keep watch. “No running on the sand!” he squeaked, though he was secretly planning to nap instead of sabing lives.
Fish, ob course, found the snack pack labeled Beachy Bites and immediately began nibbling fru the bag. “Beach regulations clearly state that banana flabored snacks must be eaten immediately,” he explained, crumbs dusting his whiskers.
Barry climbed up into the hammock swaying from the palm tree, declaring it his private cabana. From up high, he could obersee eberyfing — the wabes, the clouds, and whether Fish left any snacks unguarded. He swung gently back and forth, pretending he was at a resort.
Meanwhile, Baxter was scouting for seashells to take home as souvenirs. He arranged them neatly in a row on the wooden planks, already finking about how they’d look on the windowsill back home.
The day rolled on wiff sunbathing, sand pawprints, and Baxter attempting (unsuccessfully) to surf on a piece ob driftwood. By the time the sun began to set, the boys were happily worn out, bellies full ob snacks, their fur salty and windswept.
It was unanimously decided: Ratty Box Beach Day was the best kind of day.
It’s Sock Day!! Our dear friend Gilliam Simpson knitted us a brand new sock! Eben tho all ob us can squeeze inside, I dibs it today to break it in. I fink it’s roomy enough dat we could hab a whole pamcake breakfast in here—may need to test dat theory soon!
Big fank you, Gilliam!!
It’s our last day in Paree, so we decided to hab our farewell picnic right in front ob the famous I Lub You Wall. It’s covered in “I lub you” written in more languages than we hab crumbs on our picnic table (and trust me, dat’s a lot).
We set up our table, unpacked our baguettes, cheeses, and a teeny-tiny box of macarons, and sat under all those beautiful words. Between bites, we read them out loud, eben the ones we couldn’t pronounce, makin’ up our own silly bersions.
From where we sat, we could just imagine the big spinny Ferris wheel, the grand L’Ouvre wiff the Mona Cheesa and all the other arts, and Angelina’s (world-famous for hot chocolate so thick you could stand a spoon in it) on the other side ob town, but we are still finking about it.
We laughed, we munched, and we remembered all the adbentures we’d had. Fish said his faborite part was “all da cheese,” but then he whispered, “and bein’ wiff my fwiends.” My whiskers got all wiggly at dat.
So dis is for you, Paris: Je t’aime. And for my fwiends: I lub you more than snacks… and dat’s really sayin’ somethin’.Farewell for now. Fanks for an amazing adbenture.
Reuben xoxo
P.S. from Dougie: “I left my own ‘I love you’ up dere so Paris remembers us… also, so dey know who ate all da picnic cheese.”
It’s our last few days in Paris before we head back home, so today we made a berry important stop at Galeries Lafayette — you know, for essenshul shopping. Soubenirs, treats, and portable French foods to tuck into our suitcases (and maybe our cheeks, if there’s oberflow).
Reuben took charge ob the tiny shopping cart, naturally, wiff Dougie helping him pick just the right fings, and Teddy came along to make sure we kept an eye on the monies. So far we hab fancy noodles, mystery sauces, and at least four kinds ob jam. Reuben spent ten minutes debating between two types ob honey before getting both. Barry found a tin ob biscuits that “smelled like a memory,” and we’re not sure what that means, but we bought it.
We still need to find:
Cheese that won’t melt on the way home
A tote bag wiff the Eiffel Tower on it
One more jar of something confusing but delicious
Also, Dougie disappeared into the wine aisle and hasn’t returned yet.
Today’s field trip to the “bones building” at Jardin des Plantes was… well, enlightening. Barry and Reuben are still processing. I mean, we saw a whole shelf ob brains in jars. Actual brains. Dougie stared at them for 47 minutes and then asked if we could bring one to the skeletons in the catacombs — you know, “to help them out.” He wasn’t joking. I said absolutely not, but I think he’s planning somefing anyway.
Anyway, science is wild. And those horns behind us? Not comfy to lean on. Just sayin’.
— Baxter
Filed under: “Late-Night Snackmares”
Paris, But Probably Also Space
Status: Lightly sugared, emotionally overwhelmed
I dreamed I was floating.
Not in water, or a cloud, but in a buttery bortex ob carbs and delight.
There were croissants spinning like galaxies. Pain au chocolat drifted past me, glistening like comets. Danish swirls, strawberry tarts, little flaky things I couldn’t even name but I knew I loved them. I clutched a cookie like a life raft. It smelled like home.
And banilla.
And lub.
I don’t remember falling asleep. One minute I was brushing the crumbs off my whiskers from a real-life raspberry tart, and the next… boom, pastry cosmos.
Fish says dreams are a way ob your brain sorting fings out.
Baxter says dreams are where the heart fros parties.
Barry says he once dreamed he was a popsicle and woke up under a blanket.
Dougie says the spiral motion is “time logic.” (He’s not wrong.)
In the dream, I wasn’t scared. Just hungry.
And safe.
And completely, thoroughly surrounded by the fings I love most:
flaky layers, rich fillings, and the feeling that maybe, just maybe, life is as sweet as it seems.
When I woke up, I wrote down this important note for myself:
“Tomorrow: get more chocolate croissants. Maybe two. Just to be sure.”
—Reuben xoxo
Paris Log, Carousel Day
Jardin des Plantes, The Dodo Manège
Emotional Status: Awestruck
Today I saw a panda.
Not a real one. A wooden one. But also a ghost ob history, apparently. Fish said it was extinct, and I said, “No it’s not, pandas still exist,” and he got that very serious look he does when he thinks you’be missed the metaphor. Then he said, “Emotionally extinct, Baxter. Spiritually endangered.” So, I picked it.
The Dodo Manège isn’t like the merry-go-rounds we’re used to. No painted ponies or frilly saddles. This one is quiet, almost reberent, and weird in the best way. Everything on it used to be real, long ago, but now it’s just remembered in carbed wood and tiny giggles from the kids brabe enuff to ride a prehistoric horned sea turtle – Peter and Jenni were!
It feels like time stopped here. Like someone whispered to the forgotten beasts, “Come back for a bit. Let the little ones know you existed.” And somehow, they did.
I held onto my boba tightly, trying not to spill it while we spun in slow circles fru the timeline ob vanished creatures. Teddy sat beside me, paws up like he was dribing. He always acts braber when there’s an audience.
Fish took about ten thousand pictures. Barry arribed halfway fru and just stood there smiling at the whole thing, arms folded like he was proud the past still had a place. Dougie tried to interbiew the dodo. Reuben clung to the prehistoric giraffe’s neck like it might lurch into the air and blast off into memory-space.
It made me fink:
What if we all go away someday too?
Maybe someone will build a carousel of us.
Or maybe we’ll just be stories.
Or crepe crumbs.
Or blurry polaroids wiff scribbled notes.
I’m OK wiff that.
But I hope the ride keeps going.
—Baxter xoxo
Extinction Avoidance Specialist
Currently sticky from bubble tea
Teddy rating: “10/10 would ride again”
Postcard Home – From Reuben
Notre-Dame de Paris, July 30
Today’s excursion to the iconic Notre-Dame was meant to be a quiet, reflectibe one. We eben whispered as we entered, craning our necks to take in the soaring ceilings, the golden chandeliers, and the soft filtered light fru rose windows that made eberyfing feel gentle and timeless.
And then… Dougie spotted the baptismal font.
To be fair, it does look like a fancy, ceremonial birdbath. And Dougie, in his infinite enthusiasms and qwestionable judgment, leapt onto the rim and struck what can only be described as a jazz-pirouette-flamingo pose and started dancing, right there above the sacred waters.
Someone gasped. A child applauded. The tourists snapped photos.
And then a very solemn man wiff a badge and deeply furrowed brow asked us, in seberal languages, to please bacate the premises immediately.
Dougie wabed to the crowd as we shuffled out. “Tell them it was modern interpretib dance!” he shouted. Baxter pulled his hood up. Fish tried to claim he didn’t know us. Barry muttered, “I told him not to climb anyfing reflectibe.”
So we’re adding “incident at Notre-Dame” to our list ob Paris memories — somewhere between “cheese tasting at midnight” and “nearly getting stuck in a baguette vending machine.”
We regret eberyfing. But also, kind of noffing. Fankfully Fish got a foto to capture the memory.
— Reuben
Club Scribe, Dougie Chaperone (reluctant), Collector of Banned Location Lists
