I tried to take one small, biblically defensible nap.

Edgar attacked my feet, boarded the bed like a pirate, and somehow got himself halfway inside the box spring.

This week on Domestically Feral: rest is attempted, chaos is deployed, and management definitely has whiskers.

Season 2 begins with Dracula chicken, Don Knotts, tiny ceramic skeleton drama, and one firm boundary: Satan does not own October.

If your conscience tells you to skip Halloween, skip it. Truly. I am not here to drag anyone through a pumpkin patch against their will.

But my pumpkins are not a gateway drug to the underworld.

My decorative skeletons are not a theological crisis.

And I refuse to surrender harvest, memory, imagination, porch lights, old movies, and cinnamon candles to fear.

So yes, we are starting Season 2 calmly.

With restraint.

Like civilized people.

[Insert sanctified snark.]

Fall has been declared. Hallowtide has begun. Edgar Allan Purr is turning one, Mr. Darcy is still reporting for evening lap duty, and somewhere in this house a chocolate cat is doing something I will absolutely have to clean up later.

Season Two of Domestically Feral is here — clean, family-friendly, faith-shaped, cat-haunted, coffee-adjacent, and slightly unhinged.

Welcome back to the house where the animals have motives and civilization remains unstable but functioning.

Barely.