Behold My Halloween Standards

Hello there, dear reader. Winston here, and I will be honest with you: it has been a rough few weeks around this house. Between Willow commandeering every square inch of floor space with her puppy nonsense and my digestive system staging what can only be described as a full-scale rebellion, I’ve decided I just don’t have it in me to recount the details of the last week. You’ll feel bad for me; I’ll shed some tears and mess up my hair. It’s just not worth getting into. So instead, I think I’ll turn my attention to something far more delightful: Halloween.

With Halloween coming up this weekend, I plan to keep my spirits up by judging every costume that crosses my window. As you know, dear reader, maintaining this neighborhood’s costume standards is a responsibility I take very seriously. Willow certainly won’t do it, so the duty falls to me.

At the top of my wish list is, naturally, the French bulldog costume. Let’s be honest, dear reader: dressing up as the single greatest breed to ever walk this earth is the bare minimum of good taste. It’s the least you can do. I expect every human with a shred of decency to give this costume consideration, and to pay their respects by wearing such perfection with pride. I’ll be stationed at my window early, treats within reach, ready to applaud anyone who gets it right and to loudly judge anyone who doesn’t.

Next up, Batman costumes. The cape, the pointy ears, the brooding dramatic flair: I respect it deeply. Batman and I are basically the same guy. We both patrol our turf at night, we both radiate mystery, and we both refuse to explain ourselves to anyone who doesn’t get our methods. (Okay, fine, he has a utility belt, and I have a belt to hold up my belly rolls. Details.)

I’m also holding out hope for a giant inflatable hot dog. My humans have declared hot dogs “not an appropriate snack” (their words, not mine, and I have filed a formal complaint). So the least the universe can do is send one waddling down the sidewalk in costume form. A human-sized foam wiener deserves a slow clap, and possibly a small bow. Maybe two bows if it’s got mustard.

And then there’s the inflatable dinosaur. I can’t explain why, but watching a grown human stumble around in a T. Rex suit makes me laugh every single time. Those tiny arms! That panicked little waddle! I’ll be watching extra closely for one.

Of course, not every costume will impress me. Some are downright offensive. Crowns, for instance, are a hard pass. I already have little Miss Willow strutting around here, trying to undermine my authority as supreme ruler of this house. I do not need more kings and queens adding to the mix. If any royalty shows up at my door, I will shove cake down their throats, and I will not apologize for it.

Scary monster costumes? Pass. I already spend enough of my nights on edge thanks to my neighbor’s horrifying lawn decoration, which seems to be a permanent fixture now. I do not need more monsters messing up my number 2s.

So let me be crystal clear about who should stay off my porch. Mummies, with all that creepy shuffling and those loose bandages dragging behind them. Zombies, who groan at me. Scarecrows, which stand perfectly still until they don’t. Werewolves, because I am the only furry beast this house needs. Vampires, who clearly have no respect for personal space or necks. Ghosts, Frankenstein’s monster, and anything with a chainsaw or a rubber mask.

If you show up looking like any of these, I will bark once, retreat behind the couch, and judge you from a safe distance.

Spider costumes are a hard no for me, too. I know, I know, spiders are important for the ecosystem. I’ve heard the lectures. But I would love to never have to look at one ever again; eight legs are just not okay, especially when they appear in the hallway without an invitation. Please wear something friendly, like a pumpkin, a hot dog, or a mail carrier who promises not to ring the doorbell. I may still inspect your shoes, but that is standard security procedure.

And finally, cat costumes. I understand that cats exist. I understand that some humans even tolerate their company (if this is you, dear reader, you sicken me). But I cannot in good conscience approve of any creature dressing up as one, especially when candy is on the line. My mother’s candy bowl is sacred, and I refuse to believe any cat, real or otherwise, deserves to be near it.

By Sunday, I’m sure I’ll have seen a mix of wins and losses. But if even one French bulldog costume trots past my window, it’ll make the whole night worth it. Sometimes, even during the worst weeks, there’s joy to be found; you just have to know where to look.

Until next time, dear reader, keep your costumes creative and your candy bowls protected,

Winston 🐾