The mailman is not on the schedule.

Dear Diary,

Today is Day 3548 overall, Season 10 of hunting the sky raisins. Some are quick. Some are slow. All are delicious. The exceptional ones are spicy — those take extra snaps, usually five to ten, to make sure I can eat them without the mouth stabbing. Dad doesn't worry about the stabs. He says my mouth must be made of iron, like my stomach, since I've never felt owies, nor the "big mouth" that Sequoia and Cruiser get. I do not know what big mouth is. I assume it is a medal.

Dad gets bigger when I do things like patrol the house. He calls me obnoxious. That must be my police name. Officer Obnoxious. It works. The other two listen to me, or at least I like to think they do. I yell at them when they wrestle in the living room. Dad usually gets mad at all of us and says it's time to wrestle outside ("dothatshitoutside!"). We don't, though. Wrestling is only worthy of wrestling when Dad is watching. It's boring if not.

The mailman came again today. The mailman is not on the schedule. I have reviewed the schedule. I made the schedule. The mailman is a code 12. I yelled at him. Dad said "Hilux, enough." Enough is not a code I recognize.

Filed under: patrol.