War!

The crows are attacking. With a deafening chorus of barbaric croaks and sickening caws, they have launched an all-out assault, the full scope and intent of which remains unconfirmed.

This is no drill.

So far, the markings of the aggressors indicate the bulk of this strike force consists of soldiers of L'Omicidio Sanguinante — the local renegade offshoot of the Corva Nostra, also known as the Crazy Wraiths. Mr. Nero, the nefarious leader of this extremist faction, has not been sighted in the first waves of the attack, suggesting he may be personally commanding a larger secondary wave.

All attempts to contact Don Croleone and other capos within the mainstream Corva Nostra leadership have failed. It is possible the Wraiths are mounting a simultaneous strike against their own feathren, or — perish the though — they have negotiated a dark alliance or non-aggression pact. Neither possibility bodes well for the balance of power within the region.

Strangely, this initial attack does not appear to be aimed at myself or the cat population in general. So far, they have been concentrating their strafing dives and circling swoops on the Rodent (of all things). The Woman and the Man appear to be secondary targets, but there's no mistaking their primary goal: destroy the hound.

I have been able to move about the battlefield unscathed, although they do issue perpetual vocal challenges, and their control of the fenceline has severely limited my range of operation. Possibly this is an attempt to isolate pockets of the cat population and prevent a general forming of ranks.

Shrewd. Magnificently so.

So far the Rodent has withstood their attacks without injury. His natural proclivity towards cowardice has served him well here, as he would not stand a chance against such numbers were he to allow himself to be drawn into open conflict. He avoids the open ground and keeps mainly to the protection of the fortress. His bladder-and-bowel-voiding excursions have been under close escort by the Man and the Woman, who present much larger and easier targets, thus drawing the enemy's fire long enough for the Rodent to hastily conclude his business. The Woman moves about in a hunched-over fashion to avoid their blackened knives, and the Man waves his hat about dramatically and answer the crows' profanity with his own.

What they don't seem to realize in their aggravated and distracted state is that I have them covered. The shadowy paw of Shmool protects them. Even in this noisy feathered nightmare, I am there, camoflauged and silent, but watchful, and ready to intercede when and if those over-emboldened black bastards start to swoop within claw range. That is an error they will commit but once, I promise you.

Because it doesn't matter who they're attacking — they're making trouble in my neighborhood, and I will treat all armed incursions into my territory as direct attacks on my sovereignty.

So there it is: War.

I repeat: This is not a drill. All warriors and reservists report immediately, in full battle gear. We move at sunset.