Undercover and Underappreciated: Hamilton’s House Arrest- #2

By: Squealexander Hamilton, still the brains behind this operation

Oink again, my loyal readers.
Or should I say… co-conspirators.

You’ll be pleased to know my weekly blog takeover remains completely undetected. No one’s caught on yet. Not one suspicious glance, not one question like, “Hey, who gave the pig admin access?” Just blissful ignorance from the humans, as usual. Honestly, I’m starting to think I could run this whole farm and no one would notice.

And if this post mysteriously disappears later… just know: it was probably Harriet. Or maybe a puppy cover-up. You can’t trust anyone these days.

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The Puppy Party Nobody Asked Me About

Now let’s address the real tragedy of the week:
They’re throwing a party. For the puppies. This Sunday.

Yes, a puppy party. A socialization event, they claim. “It’s important for them to meet new people,” the humans say. “We need to expose them to different sights, sounds, and objects,” they drone on. But I see through the lies.

This is nothing more than another excuse to gush over the house-peeing amateurs like they’re royalty.

And the worst part?
I know what a real party should look like. I’ve imagined it a thousand times: a fruit platter stacked with cold watermelon cubes, frozen banana popsicles served on little sticks, corn chips dusted with pumpkin powder, a cake made entirely of peanut butter and oats, and a bucket of apples just for dramatic effect. Maybe even a mud-themed charcuterie board?

But these puppies? They’ll probably just get a few stale training treats and a sock to chew on—and still be hailed as “perfect little angels.” Even though they bark at shadows and can’t control their bladders.

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Life at Mudside Manor

Since my unjust eviction from the house (again, because of the puppies), I’ve been relocated to what they call my “nice outdoor pen.” I prefer to call it Mudside Manor—because if I’m going to suffer, I will do so with elegance.

The breeze is decent, the mud pits are adequate, but the roommates? Questionable at best.

Let me break it down for you:

• Harriet: A fellow pig, but you’d think she was some kind of warlord. Constantly posturing, grunting about how she’s in charge now. She’s got a power complex the size of a feed silo and zero respect for personal space. I roll over, and she snorts like I committed treason.
• Cletus: The goat. Full of attitude, no sense of boundaries. He climbs everything, eats anything, and gives side-eye like it’s his full-time job. If chaos had hooves, it would look like Cletus.
• Floyd: I kid you not—15 years old. That’s basically 200 in pig years. He’s mostly deaf, and honestly, a pig could throw a disco party behind his tail, and he wouldn’t blink. I’ve used this to my advantage. Overall, he’s not bad—just deeply committed to two things: food and long naps on the farm beach by the swim pond. Oh, except for the occasional farting without warning… those can be genuinely alarming.

Living with them is like starring in my own barnyard soap opera. But I’m surviving, and thriving, in my own muddy, dramatic way.

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Final Thoughts from the Exiled Editor

So while the puppies get pampered this weekend, I’ll be here—mud-soaked, mildly irritated, but still managing to keep the digital heart of this farm beating.

I don’t need streamers. I don’t need a fruit tower (though I wouldn’t say no). I just need a little respect… and maybe a moment without Harriet screaming that she’s the queen of everything.

If the humans ever wise up and throw a party for the actual most important resident of Grounded With Nature, I’ll be in my wallow… waiting. Judging. Probably crafting my own invites just in case.

Until next time—

Snoutfully Yours,
🐽 Squealexander Hamilton
Your New Favorite Blogger (Still Not Invited Inside)

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