I have instructed my scribe and general factotum to write this communication to you. After all, to put paw to keyboard would be below my station in life. I don’t “do” manual work because I’m a princess: Princess Rye.

I was born on my father’s estate a little over two months ago. I’ve never met my father. He must be far too important and busy to see me, but I know his name because the estate is named after him. He’s called “Industrial”.

I model myself on the British Royal family. I can’t wave my paw like Queen Elizabeth yet, but I’m very good at wagging my tail. I also can’t purr like her. (Scribe tells me it’s strange that she purrs. He doesn’t believe that blood-sucking, alien lizards purr – even shape-shifting ones.)

Unfortunately I have to share my palace with a very common dog called “Whisky”. I’m not sure why he’s here. He’s a most unpleasant, low down cove, born on the wrong side of the highway. In fact, quite literally born at the side of the highway. He really doesn’t understand his position in society. When I steal his chews or eat from his dog bowl he gets most aggitated, growls and snarls. Such terrible manners and a complete lack of respect. Doesn’t he understand that it’s perfectly acceptable for royalty to steal from poor people? After all, the British royal family has been doing it with impunity for centuries.

The only respite I get from Whisky is when I retire to my bed chamber at night. My factotum locks the chamber door to keep him out. Whisky sleeps on the palace floor as befits a common cur.

My scribe and general factotum isn’t the smartest puppy in the litter. I often need to bite his ankles to make sure he’s paying attention to me, and sometimes I need to wait several seconds after I yap for him to open the door to my bed chamber. Such laxness is not appreciated.

Anyway, time for me to inspect the palace grounds. I feel the urge to perform a royal pee.

Princess Rye

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