11:18pm: I’m currently hiding out underneath the porch, waiting for this nightmare to be over. I have found a camera and taught myself to write so that I can document the events of this near-apocalyptic evening for posterity.
11:22pm: For starters, everything in the front yard is on fire. Yes, FIRE. I don’t know why I was left behind to deal with this when Mr. and Mrs. Packer went on vacation. Do I look like a Dalmation? No. I’m a Yorkshire terrier. I was bred to catch rats and MAYBE enter dog shows.
11:32pm: Oh, God. They’ve found me. These drunk girls scooped me out from under the porch and threw me into a sort of bouncy prison. Thank God Thomas hasn’t fed me since his parents left, or there would be a healthy coating of kibbles n’ bits lining this plastic hell.
11:48pm: So much bouncing. Somebody help me. Lassie? Are you out there? The number for PETA is on the fridge.
11:52pm: Finally escaped the bouncy prison, taking this close-up on my final bounce. Indisputable proof, whether I survive or not, that my torturer Thomas is behind tonight’s mayhem. I hope his parents take away that fucking stereo.
11:53pm: Ah, his parents. My beautiful, gentle benefactors. I wish they were here now. Instead, all I have is this photo that I stole and folded up into my doggie locket. Would that I could once more feel the warm pattern of Mrs. Packer’s cable-knit twinset against my trembling fur!
12:41pm: The senseless debauchery continues. But I have concocted a plan. While the graceless two-legged punks are busy rubbing their genitalia against each other, I will float to safety in a balloon contraption. Just need to get back under the porch to construct it.
1:29am: Blast. They’ve colonized the porch. I’ll never be able to pass back into the fleeting safety of my subterranean dwelling unnoticed. BRB, gonna go sniff around for cake.
1:36am: What kind of a goddamn birthday party doesn’t have any cake?
1:39am: Seriously, not even Thomas’ fat friend had any. Usually when that kid comes over to the house, he has at least one piece of cake in his pockets. Sometimes cake and a cookie.
2:14am: The females are holding red solo cups! This means Thomas and his brain-dead cronies can’t be far away. I’ll lay low until they make a move.
2:20am: YES! The coast is clear! Also, Thomas is obviously delusional if he thinks he’s going to get any action from that chick. But I’ve got bigger fish to fry.
3:47am: My moment has come. I leave these negatives behind for the authorities. My doggie locket, I leave to Mrs. Packer. To Thomas, I leave the poop under the porch. For the lost souls here tonight: I pray for you. Goodbye.