Hear Ye, Hear Ye...The Official Definition of a Good Day

My dearest friends on the internet,

I am sad to share that I have discovered yet another serious flaw in the human operating system.

Unfortunately, humans do not know how to recognize a good day. I fear it’s simply not in your DNA.

This matter came to my attention while I was reviewing the woman’s Evening Household Report. She had completed several tasks, worked on important projects, removed another small civilization from the house as part of her decluttering initiative (she has now cleared out more than 1,000 items!) cared for the vile beasts, and kept everyone alive.

A respectable performance, by any reasonable standard.

Yet at the bottom of the report, she had written:

“Bob, I didn’t get nearly enough done today. Please help me do better tomorrow.”

I read it twice.

Then I summoned the Official Stern Look.

The woman couldn’t see it because I was in my Heavenly Supervisory Office at the time, but I can assure you it was magnificent. Efficient, too. I do not waste resources.

You see, humans have established entirely unreasonable qualifications for a good day. According to the paperwork submitted to my office, you must wake up refreshed, exercise, drink sufficient water, answer every message, complete all work, maintain a clean house, prepare nutritious meals, remain cheerful, experience no anxiety whatsoever, make meaningful progress toward several long-term goals, and go to bed at an appropriate hour.

Then, apparently, you must fall asleep immediately.

You must also remember why you entered the kitchen.

This final requirement eliminates the woman immediately.

Under the current human system, an otherwise decent day can be disqualified because the laundry remained in the dryer, an email went unanswered, dinner came from a box, or one item on a list of seventeen did not receive a checkmark.

Vile. Simply vile to the core.

I convened an emergency meeting of the Bobington Standards Committee to establish a more reasonable definition.

Cooper arrived first because he believed there would be snacks.

There were not.

He remained optimistic.

“Cooper,” I said, “what makes a day good?”

He gave the matter approximately half a second of careful consideration.

“I woke up.”

“Yes.”

“I went outside.”

“Yes.”

“I smelled things.”

“Obviously.”

“I met some humans and some dogs. And I rolled around on my back in seventeen neighbors’ yards.”

“You also attempted to introduce yourself to a traffic cone.”

“It seemed friendly.”

Cooper continued with his report. He had eaten breakfast. He had taken the woman for a walk. He had found an interesting patch of grass. Someone had told him he was “the goodest boy.” He had received a treat for returning to the house, even though returning had not been his idea.

By Cooper’s calculations, the day had been an overwhelming success.

“Did you accomplish anything?” I asked.

“I smelled the entire left side of a shrub.”

Case closed.

Cooper does not wait until evening to decide whether his day was worthwhile. He assumes it was worthwhile because he was in it.

This level of confidence is irritating, but there may be something to it.

Miss Daisy joined the meeting from beneath a blanket. I asked for her definition of a good day.

“Mommy wakes up,” Daisy said.

A surprisingly tender beginning.

“And immediately attends to me.”

There it is.

According to Daisy, a good day includes a properly prepared breakfast, adequate blanket coverage, several naps, no unexpected breezes, and the woman’s undivided attention for the remainder of the day.

I reminded her that the woman has responsibilities involving other living creatures.

Daisy said that sounded like a staffing problem.

She then demanded lunch.

It was 9:14 in the morning.

Miss Frankie arrived last because Miss Frankie does not attend meetings.

Meetings wait for Miss Frankie.

She settled herself in a sunbeam, looked around at the committee, and asked why we had interrupted her executive reflection period.

“What makes a day good, Miss Frankie?” I asked.

“A box.”

“That is all?”

“A sunbeam.”

“Anything else?”

“A countertop from which to observe inferior decision-making.”

Miss Frankie does not make elaborate plans for a good day. She locates one warm square of sunlight and begins.

I studied the committee’s findings.

Cooper requires consciousness and access to the outdoors. Daisy requires warmth, food, and personal service. Frankie needs a cardboard rectangle and the freedom to judge others.

Not one of them mentioned productivity. Nobody required an empty inbox or a sparkling kitchen. Nobody felt the need to become a better version of themselves before sunset.

Naturally, as the only qualified administrator present, I prepared the official definition.

A good day may include something accomplished. It may also include something postponed because you were tired.

It may contain laughter. It may contain tears. It may be orderly and productive, or it may wander around in slippers accomplishing absolutely nothing that anyone could photograph for social media.

Now, before we go any further, I know that some days are genuinely hard.

They hurt. They exhaust you. They bring news you did not want and changes you did not choose.

I will not insult you by insisting that every day is secretly wonderful if you examine it from the correct angle. Sometimes a terrible day is simply a terrible day.

Heaven sees all, and we keep very accurate records.

But many days aren’t terrible. They’re simply ordinary.

And you humans are far too quick to declare an ordinary day inadequate.

You woke up. You made the coffee. You fed someone. You answered one message. Maybe you stood outside for a moment and noticed the sky.

You finished something—or wisely decided it could wait until tomorrow. Perhaps you laughed at a dog who has never questioned his own value despite having eaten an insect.

You sat beside someone you love.

Or perhaps someone sat beside you.

Maybe nothing remarkable happened at all.

That doesn’t mean nothing mattered.

The woman has been doing a great deal lately. She has been creating, planning, building, writing, sorting, scheduling, and trying to squeeze several large dreams into the same twenty-four-hour container.

Then evening arrives, and instead of looking at everything she carried, she starts searching for what she dropped.

I have reviewed her records carefully. She is not behind.

She is living.

These are not the same thing.

Therefore, I have issued a revised household policy, effective immediately:

You are no longer permitted to judge an entire day solely by what you produced during it.

You may also consider what you noticed and what you enjoyed. What you survived. What you gave. What you allowed yourself to receive.

You may count the walk, the conversation, the sandwich, the nap, the song you liked, and those ten quiet minutes when nobody needed anything from you.

You may count getting through the day when getting through it required everything you had.

You may even count the laundry in the dryer.

It is clean.

Let us not become unreasonable…or ridiculous.

At the conclusion of the meeting, I asked each committee member whether the present day had been good.

Cooper said yes because he had attended a meeting. Daisy said no because lunch was late. Frankie declined to answer on the grounds that the question was beneath her.

I looked toward the house.

The woman was working at her desk. Cooper was sound asleep at her feet. Daisy was tucked safely beneath her blankets, snoring while presumably dreaming of snacks. Frankie had found a patch of sunlight and claimed it as her own.

Everyone was home.

Everyone was loved.

The day counted.

Perhaps yours does, too.

Very truly yours,

Bob
Angel Cat
Heavenly Supervisor of Bobington
Chairman, Committee for the Immediate Simplification of Human Standards

P.S. Cooper has requested that “did not eat a bee” be added to the official list of daily accomplishments. The motion has been approved.