Today is Seben-Elebenty Day!
While Reuben is still on adbenture in France, probably sipping an espresso under a striped awning and nibbling on a flaky croissant, the rest ob the crew is holding down the fort back home—one Slurpee at a time.
They clinked their cups in solidarity and said, “To Reuben! May your pastries be warm and your cheese be stinky!”
(Meanwhile, Fish quietly whispered to his Slurpee, “You’re not cheese, but you’ll do.”)
Location: Château de Ronald
Date: Touching Almost Nothing
Dear Journal,
We landed safely in a field near the castle, thanks to Ronald’s heroic fire-breath (and a lucky breeze). After a lot of cheering and a little bit of crying (mostly from Dougie, but happy tears), Ronald invited us inside for a proper castle tour.
“Just one rule,” he said, puffing out his chest like a tour guide in training. “By order ob the monarch: NO TOUCHING ANYFING.”
Teddy wrote it down immediately. Dougie nodded solemnly. I tucked my paws behind my back.
We made it fru the Grand Gallery wiffout incident. We almost made it through the Belbet Throne Room. But the music stand in the Royal Music Salon? It was just so… shiny.
Before we knew it, Dougie had climbed up for a better look. Teddy followed to inspect the “craftsmanship.” And I—I may have tapped one ob the keys on a berry old piano that played a note that definitely echoed.
Ronald gasped.
We froze.
But instead ob scolding us, he leaned in and whispered, “Okay okay just don’t tell the monarch. Or the butler. They’re snitches.”
We kept exploring—secret staircases, golden libraries, a hallway ob portraits with eyes that follow you (berry unsettling).
Teddy rated it 4.5 stars for decor, 5 stars for the cheese platter. Dougie says if we ever need a hideout, this castle is perfect.
And me? I feel like we’re libing inside a storybook.
Just… next time, I’ll keep my paws in my pockets. Gotta run, we don’t want to be late for dinner in the Grand Hall!
—Reuben xoxo
P.S. We did not touch the crown. Technically.
Location: Still in the Sky
Date: The Day Ronald Became a Hero
Dear Journal,
For a moment, we were certain it was the end ob our balloom boyage.
The catapulted rock—a boulder, really—was whistling fru the air like a very angry tater. Teddy yelled “DUCK!” but there were no ducks, and no way to steer. Dougie gripped my shoulder. I saw my life flash before my eyes (mostly cheese and socks).
And then…
Ronald.
He squinted. He puffed up. He stomped his foot fibe times (which I now know is how you summon full brabery), and just as the boulder closed in—Ronald blew.
It wasn’t a huge, roaring dragon-blast like in the stories. It was more like a warm sneeze. But the breeze it stirred tipped the rock just enuff.
The boulder missed the balloon entirely and landed with a soft thud in a hay field. A nearby goat looked confused, then went back to chewing.
We stared at Ronald in awe. He stared back, eyes wide and a little teary. “You DID it!” Dougie called.
Ronald beamed. I fink he grew a whole inch in pride.
We’re still floating. Still together. Still safe.
Thanks to our littlest, warmest, fiercest friend.
—Reuben xoxo
P.S. The breeze singed one croissant, but it was still edible. Teddy called it “caramelized.”
Location: Somewhere Above France
Date: Very High Up
Dear Journal,
Today we are in the sky. Actually in a basket. Hanging beneaff a hot air balloom. Me, Dougie and Teddy were in one, and the rest ob the gang were in two others.
This was Dougie’s idea, ob course. “Imagine the biews!” he said. “Fink ob the stories!” Teddy added, already adjusting his travel scarf and polishing his binoculars.
I nodded slowly. But inside, my whiskers were buzzing and my tail was in full curl. I’be neber been sure about fings that float because they’re full of hot air—except my cousin Scott, and that’s more ob a personality thing.
Still, I couldn’t be the only one who stayed behind. So I climbed in. Teddy held my paw. Dougie pointed toward the horizon and shouted, “Adbenture awaits!”
And then… we launched.
At first, it was berry qwiet. Peaceful. The ground below looked like a patchwork quilt made of toast crusts and green grapes. But then the breeze caught us, and we swayed just a little—and I might have squeaked louder than I meant to.
Teddy whispered, “You’re doing great, Rueb,” and I beliebed him.
I peeked down again. There was the village, the bakery with the jam that always dribbles, the cheese museum, even the crooked alley where we saw the accordion cat.
And then my paws relaxed. My tail unfurled.
I wasn’t scared anymore. I was floating—wiff my best friends, above the land ob cheese and croissants.
I still wouldn’t call it relaxing. But magical?
Oui.
—Reuben xoxo
P.S. Dougie dropped a grape. It hit a farmer. He waved. We waved back. It’s fine.
Location: Our Labender Scented Bed and Breakfast
Date: Monday – Sock Day
Dear Journal,
After nighttime naps and nibbling and the official Sock Day Stretch™, Teddy and I told Peter and the rest of the crew about the Sock Day Tradition.
Peter blinked a few times and said, “You mean you just… don’t do anything?”
“Exactly,” I said, “but in a purposeful way.”
The Cowsins were immediately on board. One was already wearing mismatched socks and declared themselves “Captain of Sock Lounge Operations.”
Mama BunBun listened while knitting somefing quietly and then said, “That actually sounds like the most sensible idea I’ve heard all trip.” Dougie gabe a tiny bow and whispered, “We’re cultural icons.”
So we explained it all:
— No chores
— No maps
— No worrying
— Just snacks, socks, and soft surfaces
Peter looked thoughtful for a while and finally said, “We should’ve been doing this years ago.” He then put on his comfiest scarf (not a sock, but spiritually close) and joined us on the rug.
We told old stories. Shared leftober cheese cubes. Teddy gave a full lecture titled ““Sock Day: A Lifestyle, Not a Luxury”.
I fink Sock Day might be spreading. We may hab just started a tiny rebolution.
We didn’t go anywhere. We didn’t ride. We didn’t brabe eben one single cobblestone. We stayed curled up in our cozy little room, surrounded by leftober rind paper, and cheese dreams.
Teddy napped in the sun patch. Dougie doodled a cartoon ob a flying wheel ob brie. I re-organized Fish’s cheese notes and added new stars to the map. We listened to the quiet. We laughed and sang and told jokes. We recharged.
—Reuben xoxo
P.S. I found a soft cheese between my toes at lunch. I called it Toe-brie. Dougie was not impressed.
Reuben’s Trabel Journal – Entry #6
Location: Village of Fromagerie Fantastique
Date: The Day the Dream Came True
Dear Journal,
Dreams are real. I’m sitting at a tiny café table wiff Dougie, surrounded by cheese.
Gruyère. Brie. Camembert. Roquefort. Some wiff truffles. Some that crumble. Some that melt just by looking at them. I’m not even sure all ob them are legal.
Dougie and I wandered deeper into the cheese village, following our noses, and each turn rebealed another delicious surprise. Shops filled wiff cheese wheels stacked taller than we are. A cheese fountain! A soft cheese so stinky we had to wear tiny clothespins on our noses!
And then—we saw it:Le Musée de Fromage.
That’s French for “cheese museum.” I’m not crying, you’re crying.
Inside was the map. The map. A giant wall-sized chart of ebery cheese maker in France. I pressed my paw to it like I was touching legend.
Fish would hab fainted. I took notes for his map. I took a rubbing. I took a napkin and drew my own bersion. We are now officially on the Cheese Tour ob Destiny™.
We ended the day at this cozy table inside a cheese shop. Teddy picked a triple-cream. Dougie is currently doing a dramatic reading of a Brie label. I don’t want to move. I might be made of cheese now.
More tomorrow, unless I roll away like a wheel of chèvre.
—Reuben
P.S. I saved you some Roquefort in a napkin. Don’t tell customs.
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
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.
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.
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.
