04/18/2026
Sir Reginald Featherbottom III had seen many things in his distinguished career as Frontyard Overseer—but nothing, nothing, could have prepared him for The Seeds.
It began at dawn.
He landed, as usual, on his Executive Perch (the turquoise chair), ready to begin a full day of yelling at harmless objects. But then… he noticed it.
In front of him.
A pile.
A glorious, shimmering, magnificent pile.
Seeds.
Not the sad, ordinary kind you peck once and forget. No—these were plump. Delicious sunflower seeds. Fragrant. The kind of seeds that whispered, “You deserve this.”
Sir Reginald froze.
“This…,” he said aloud to absolutely no one, “is either a gift… or a trap.”
He hopped closer.
Sniffed.
Tilted his head dramatically.
Pecked one.
Silence.
Then—
His eyes widened.
His feathers fluffed.
He looked up at the sky as if he had just discovered the meaning of life.
“WHO HAS DONE THIS?!” he screeched, though his tone had shifted from outrage to pure, unfiltered joy.
He devoured another seed. And another. And another.
Between bites, he began making proclamations:
• “These are… acceptable.”
• “No, wait—these are excellent.”
• “No—this is a five-star dining experience.” Chomp chomp….
Soon, he became suspicious again.
He paused mid-snack, scanning the yard.
“The Human…” he muttered. “This is clearly the work of The Human.”
He puffed up, pacing around the pile like a tiny, red food critic.
“Very well,” he declared. “I shall allow this generosity… for now.”
A chicken approached.
Sir Reginald immediately looked and screamed,
“BACK AWAY FROM THE DIVINE SNACKS, PEASANT!”
The chicken blinked once… and left.
Victorious, Sir Reginald returned to the seeds, stuffing himself with dramatic enthusiasm.
Finally, round and satisfied, he hopped back onto his turquoise throne, glanced directly toward the house, and gave a single, approving chirp.
A rare honor.
Tomorrow, he would return.
Not for duty.
Not for judgment.
But for breakfast. 🤭
