Alleged. All of it alleged. Each incident is documented with a date, a photograph, a description, and — crucially — Pixie's official defense. The defense is, frankly, airtight.
The roll was hanging there. Loose. Practically unattended. I took the end between my teeth and committed to the bit — through the hall, the dining area and halfway across the living room before the trail caught up with me. No video exists. The humans were, as always, too slow.
"I regret nothing. Also, it cannot be a crime if there is no footage."
The hamper sits in the corner, open-topped, practically begging to be audited. I conduct these audits nightly. Findings: socks. So many socks. None of them, technically, mine. I relocate them, one at a time, to my donut bed, where I then pass out from the administrative labor.
"I do not steal. I rescue. The hamper is mismanaged and someone had to act."
I had a bully stick. A perfectly good one. Mine. Across the room, my brother Tupak — nearly sixteen, wise, experienced — was working on his. His was shinier. Or newer. Or in some way I cannot articulate, superior. I abandoned mine mid-chew, crossed the room, and made it mine through proximity and intent.
"His was better. Until I had it. Then it was boring. This is principle, not theft."
The toy box was designed to hold toys. This was an administrative misunderstanding. I have reviewed the space personally and determined that it is, in fact, a Pixie box. The toys may remain as long as they understand they are tenants.
"I live here now."
A treat puzzle board was left on the floor. Unattended. All compartments were cleared in record time. The humans called this “impressive.” I call it “thorough.” Anything left within reach is, by longstanding household precedent, mine.
"If I can reach it, it is mine. The board was reachable. Case closed."
Two series run continuously. Both are, in their way, the same story: Pixie versus the world.