Reuben’s Trabel Journal – Entry #5


Reuben’s Trabel Journal – Entry #5
Location: Just outside Saint-Baguette-sur-Lune
Date: The Day Dougie Flew

Dear Journal,

Today, Dougie flew. Not on purpose.

We were cruising fru the French countryside, wind in our ears and baguette crumbs on our shirts, when a loose cobblestone leapt up and sent our Vespa into a wild zig-zag.

My paws clenched the handlebars like they were made ob glue. I swerbed. I squeaked. I fought for control wiff all the strength in my tiny arms. Somehow, I got us back on course. I was just starting to breathe again when—

I heard it.

A wail. A soft, high-pitched, baby-elephant-who-is-no-longer-on-the-scooter kind of wail.

I looked back just in time to see Dougie—ears flapping, trunk trailing—flying through the air like a fuzzy dumpling fired from a cannon.

My heart actually stopped. Teddy fainted in the sidecar. And Dougie was flying.

And then—he landed. Right in a fruit cart.

A beautiful, wobbly, oberstuffed fruit cart just outside a little roadside stand. He landed in a splash of grapes and rolled into a pile of apples. An orange bounced dramatically into the air and hit a nearby turnip.

He popped his head up between a carrot and a grape bunch, looking mildly surprised but mostly okay.

The cart owner—an elderly badger—gasped, then declared him “un miracle moelleux,” which means “a soft miracle.” She even gabe him a fruit kabob for the road.

I ran to him and hugged him so hard we squished a kumquat. He said the landing was “a little juicy,” but otherwise fine. Teddy has recobered. The Vespa is unscratched.

Dougie is now referring to himself as The Flying Trunk.

Adventure rating: 12/10. Would recommend. Maybe pack a parachute next time.

More soon,—Reuben xoxo

Fireworks


As the sun dipped into the horizon, casting long golden rays across the Great Park, Fish, Barry, and Baxter sat together at a little wooden table, Baxter neber complained about bringing the stack ob magnets to halp boost Fish to be tall enuff – just above the table. But let’s face it, they were pretty heaby to be lugging around, but his brothers comfort was worff it.

In front ob them sat a plate wiff cookies—mostly chocolate chip, some shaped like stars, and one slightly nibbled already (Fish swore it wasn’t him).

They each wore their soft headphones, ears safely cushioned from the coming fireworks, but their eyes sparkled in anticipation. Baxter reached for a cookie, then paused dramatically. “We wait for the first firework,” he declared, as if it were tradition.

Barry sipped from a tiny thermos of chamomile tea and glanced at the sky, which was now a deepening purple. “That one looks like it’s ready to pop,” he murmured, pointing to a drifting cloud.

Fish had already taken a small bite and licked a smudge of chocolate off his paw. “I’m just pre-gaming,” he whispered.

They leaned on the table, cookies in paw, surrounded by the quiet buzz of the crowd behind them—waiting, together, for the sky to open up and the celebration to begin.

Reuben’s Trabel Journal – Entry #4

Location: Somewhere in a billage
Date: First Full Day in France

Dear Journal,

We got fru the portal. We found the Vespa (it’s a long story). And now… we are RIDING FRU FRANCE!

I can’t believe this is real. The wind smells like butter and basil and maybe a little bit like old buildings (the good kind). The cobblestones are bumpy and charming and I almost fell off once, but Dougie caught me by the tail and we both laughed so hard we had to pull over.

Mama BunBun said “just a short ride,” but I’m pretty sure she knew that meant “until sunset, at least.”

We passed fru a tiny billage where ebery window had flower boxes and one pigeon shouted “Salut!” at us from a fountain. We saw a cat on a balcony playing a violin. (That might’be been a dream? We were both a little dizzy from excitement and brie.)

The Vespa runs perfectly—smooth and strong, just like I remembered from my dream. It makes the perfect “putta-putta-vroom” sound. I lub it!

Dougie is nabigating from a fold-out map that’s bigger than he is. We took a wrong turn once and ended up in a field full ob tiny sheep. One tried to climb in the sidecar. We named him Éclair and politely told him no.

Tonight we plan on camping under the stars behind a bakery. The baker said we were “les voyageurs mignons,” which we fink means “handsome trabelers” but we didn’t check.

Tomorrow we ride toward the sea. Maybe we’ll find a castle. Or a cheese cabe. Or both.

—Reuben

P.S. Dougie is wearing goggles now. He says it helps wiff the bugs.

King ob Thursdays

It was a Thursday, ob course. Baxter wore his crown as tradition demanded. But no amount ob jewels could shield him from the reality ob what lay before him: an endless pile ob office work for Internashunal Bizness.

He had tried to delegate. He meant to fill out Form C-3B/Alpha before second breakfast. But now the forms were oberdue, Reuben was out on an adbenture, Barry was already at the bakery wiffout him, and Fish had turned the office filing cabinet into a cheese cellar.

And so, Baxter rested his weary head on the stapler. Not in defeat. No, neber that. Just a moment ob qwiet contemplation… before pushing forward and conquering the bizness stuff.

Reuben’s Trabel Journal – Entry #2

 

Location: Home (still)
Date: Portal Day

Dear Journal,

It’s happening. The portal is ready.

Professor Whooot just rang the bell—twice—and the air in the dryer room is buzzing. I don’t mean like a little static. I mean it’s humming. The gears are turning on their own, the pendulums are swinging backward, and there’s a soft blue shimmer at the base of the big dryer. Dougie says that means it’s calibrated. All systems are go.

I wasn’t scared before. But now my paws feel kind of… sweaty? Is that a thing? I keep checking my suitcase even though I KNOW I packed everything:
✔ Teddy
✔ Notebook
✔ Four snacks (maybe five)
✔ Emergency croissants
✔ Extra socks (Baxter said it would be “sophisticated”)

Mom gabe me one last hug and smoothed my ear floof and said, “You’re going to do great things, Ruby Doo.” She also slipped a little note into my bag but I promised not to read it until I missed her. (So probably in, like, ten minutes.)

Dougie boice came ober the locket loud and clear. “You ready?” he asked.

I nodded. And then I squeaked. And then I laughed. And now I was standing in front of the portal, glowing and swirling and pulsing like a jellyfish made of sky.

This is it. I’m stepping fru.

—Reuben

Reuben’s Trabel Journal – Entry #1

Reuben’s Trabel Journal – Entry #1
Location: Home (for now)
Date: The day before the portal opens

Dear Journal,
Teddy and I are packed, excited and perched by the door, just waiting on Professor Whooot to gib the all-clear. Dougie says France smells like croissants and labender, and honestly? I’m already hungry.

Mom helped me fold my clothes and reminded me twice to write her as soon as we arribe. Barry rolled his eyes and said I better not come back wiff a “weird accent,” but Baxter says he expects a full report on French pastry technique.

I told Fish I would keep his cheese map safe, and in return he gave me a wedge ob somefing soft and stinky “for emergencies.”

Tomorrow, we go. Fru the time-space continuum, first to Dougies house, then ober the moon (maybe), and straight to France. I don’t know what we’ll find, but I’m bringing an open heart, an empty notebook, and at least four snacks.

Wish us luck! xoxo
—Reuben

Reuben’s Adbenture

Reuben flipped open his little suitcase, stuffing in two scarves, a fresh bowtie, emergency croissants, and his trabel cheese journal (on loan from Fish). He tried not to get too nerbous as he told his mom he was going to France wiff Dougie – hoping to make his scooter dream come true. His whiskers twitched and he was waiting for word from Professor Whoot as to when the portal would be open.

“Are you sure you don’t mind if I go?” he asked his mom.

“Yes, baby,” she said, smoothing the fur between his ears. “Just remember to send postcards and stay close to Dougie. You will hab a wonderful time!”

He had insisted on shipping his blue scooter to their destination, ready to glide through time and space, right into the cobbled streets of Paris – just as he dreamed.

Adbenture was calling. And Reuben answered. He was so excited to spend more time wiff Dougie!!

MORE

Barry had told himself—promised himself, in fact—that he’d just get one sundae. A modest treat. A polite cool-down. Something sensible.

But then the waffle bowl showed up.

There it was: rich chocolate ice cream cradled in a golden, crispy shell, topped with a dramatic flourish of whipped cream and just a suggestion of caramel drizzle. Barry stared at it, paws lightly pressed to his cheeks, eyes wide with a mixture of awe, longing, and mild panic.

He had already polished off his first sundae. And now here sat a second one. Entire. Untouched. Towering. Daunting.

His spoon lay quietly on the table between them, like a tiny silver question mark.

“Maybe I got carried away,” Barry whispered to the dessert. “But it’s not myfault you looked so photogenic.”

He glanced left, then right, hoping no one was watching. He was already full, but also… he was Barry. And Barry didn’t back down from beautiful snacks.

Besides, he reasoned, you don’t come to Fentons to be reasonable.

It’s Hot.


Barry had been melting all afternoon—melting, he insisted, dramatically flopping onto the nearest patch ob tile floor like a Bictorian fainting goat. The summer heat had turned the house into a slow cooker, and no amount of fan-hovering or freezer-door-peeking could soothe his frizzled nerbes. So when the idea struck—Fentons!—he was up in a flash, ears perked and whiskers twitching with purpose.

Fentons was exactly the kind of place Barry loved when he needed to cool down and feel a little glamorous. The striped awnings, the jingling bell ober the door, the glass cases glittering wiff ice cream tubs in colors too cheerful to be real—it was like stepping into a time machine. An old-fashioned parlor, full ob promise.
Barry ordered a Black & Tan Sundae, because it felt like the right amount of drama: rich vanilla and toasted almond ice cream, smothered in both chocolate and caramel, wiff mountains of whipped cream and a cherry that Barry berry politely asked to hab on the side, because he didn’t like sticky paws.

Behind him, the soft clatter of spoons and laughter drifted fru the parlor. Barry didn’t notice. He was already halfway to ice cream nirvana, spoon in paw, ears slightly askew in pure bliss.

Outside, the sun still blazed. Inside, Barry sabored ebery bite like a tiny, shy mobie star on holiday—cool, quiet, and perfectly content.

Reuben