By: Cornelius Thruster ~Guest Writer~

Disaster is the only word to describe this hell-storm of a week. Pure, unadulterated disaster. This time of year is never easy, granted, but I could truly never expect the type of emotional pain that waited for me at the beginning of this new period of orbit.

I’d been waiting. Counting down for seven solar cycles, and finally it came. It was beautiful, as it always is. I can never tell how long the light period lasts, as I am far too busy with my winter ventures. It could be a month, it could be years. All I know is that I may sit on my outcropping, unencumbered by the usual vicious mob that storms my territory each day and each night, terrifying the cats, and forcing them to stay in close quarters with their rivals.

Señor Snuggles told me a harrowing tale of his walk a few days ago. As he made his way through the bushes one day, he was compromised. A pack of three had seen him and locked eye contact, whilst whispering something he couldn’t quite make out. Next thing he knew, they approached, venturing closer and closer and forcing him to flee. He darted away, but not before hearing the dark humiliation of their violating laughter ring in his poor soft ears. I can hardly speak of it.

Señor Snuggles has been such a good friend. This is not what he deserves. He has always stuck by me… and I must stick by him too. He and I sit here now in the darkest corner of the structure alone. In the dark on the other side I see a pair of eyes. Then two. Three. Six. Who knows how many yellow eyes sparkle like candlelight in the black doorframe? They are returning. They are asking for something. There is urgency in their faces and a hint of fear. Señor Snuggles tells me I must act quickly. I fear this can only mean one thing.

Nixon. He’s back.