Typing from inside the crate

It is night and the dreaded felines are up, slinking about while I am attempting to slumber. I shall ignore them. They are not worthy of my attention.

It is hard to be omnipotent. As much as The Woman and The Man tend to my needs, I still have unspoken desires that they can not comprehend. I wish to dine upon sirlion nightly. I wish to run loose in the park without a leash so that the squirrels can not allude my jaws.

I wish to understand what that Yorkshire is constantly yapping about when I walk by her house.

I ponder why The Woman brings in pieces of paper from outside to in, and why early in the morning and late in the afternoon, people drop pieces of paper near the door. It is strange. I bark and they go away, but the paper stays. 'Tis strange.

I shall dream of a river of squirrels flowing through the kitchen. In the meantime, I shall watch to see if The Felines dare to drink from my bowl again tonight.

I Am Shiba. And I Dream Of Electric Squirrels.