November arrived, and with it, a chill in the air, a draft by the window, and a terrible realization: the humans had been hogging the couch cushions again. As Supreme Supervisor of this household, I could not let this stand. So I did what any great leader does in a crisis. I built a nation.
Not a big nation. A cozy one. A blanket fort nation, right in the middle of the living room, where the sunbeam used to be before it moved six inches to the left for autumn (I have not forgiven it, but I have adapted, because I am a professional).
The construction
Construction began at dawn, by which I mean I woke up, supervised loudly for four minutes, and then napped on the plans. The humans, to their credit, followed my very clear instructions, which I gave by sitting on each cushion in turn and refusing to move. This is called leadership.
The fort itself is a marvel. Two couch cushions form the walls. Three blankets form the roof, the annex, and the emergency escape blanket, which is just a blanket I can dramatically exit through. A pillow moat guards the entrance. I tested every pillow personally. Some of them I tested twice, asleep, for science.
The constitution
Every nation needs rules, so I wrote a constitution. It is short, because I am busy, and because naps are also in the constitution.
- Rule One: If I fits, I sits. If it does not fit, I sits anyway. This rule predates the fort and will outlive us all.
- Rule Two: The remote control stays with me. I found it on Mount Cushion, and leverage is everything.
- Rule Three: Treats are currency. Admission to the fort costs one treat, payable to me, immediately, no haggling.
- Rule Four: Quiet hours are whenever I am asleep, which is most hours. Please plan accordingly.
The summit
At noon, I convened the first annual Blanket Fort Summit. Attendance was mandatory. The attendees were myself, a stuffed bunny (diplomatic observer), and one very confused human who had come looking for the remote. Negotiations were swift. The bunny said nothing, which I took as full agreement. The human offered a treat, which I took as tribute.
We discussed the important issues of our time: the draft by the window, the suspicious crinkling of the emergency escape blanket, and whether the 8 PM zoomies should be held inside the fort or around it. The motion passed unanimously, by me, to hold them around it, at full speed, with no warning. Some traditions are sacred.
Then, in a historic moment, I planted my flag on the roof of the fort, raised one paw, and declared the nation open for naps. I then immediately took a nap inside it, to demonstrate its primary function. The summit was a triumph. The bunny has not stopped talking about it. (The bunny has not started talking about it either. Diplomacy is complicated.)
So if you need me this November, you will find me in the fort, ruling wisely, napping deeply, and guarding the remote with my life. Visitors welcome. Bring treats. Be like Maddie.
The fine-ish print: No cushions were harmed in the founding of this nation, though several were sat upon extensively. The stuffed bunny was not consulted and has no comment. The remote remains mine.
