By Penelope the Owl

Penelope cleared her throat, which for an owl sounds like a professor gargling a library.

“The holiday originates in ancient Rome,” she began. “Where people celebrated Lupercalia. A fertility festival involving goats, blood, and mild public nudity.”

Maurice perked up.

“Finally,” he said. “A holiday with standards.”

Penelope ignored him.

“Later, the Catholic Church attempted to sanitize this by honoring Saint Valentine. Or possibly several Saint Valentines. Historians are unclear.”

Bob raised a paw.

“How many Valentines are we talking?”

“Between one and three,” Penelope said.

Bernice snorted.

“Even saints can’t get their stories straight.”

Penelope continued.

“One Valentine allegedly performed secret marriages for soldiers forbidden to wed. Another allegedly healed people. Another allegedly wrote letters signed ‘From your Valentine’ before being executed.”

Bob gasped.

“They killed him?”

“Yes.”

“For love?”

“Possibly.”

“For paperwork?”

“Likely.”

Maurice leaned back.

“So let me get this straight. Humans took a festival about goats and blood, slapped a dead guy on it, and now sell underwear?”

“Essentially,” Penelope said.

How Commerce Ate Cupid

Bob examined the chocolate box again.

“Why hearts?” he asked. “Hearts don’t even look like that.”

Bernice landed on his nose.

“Marketing,” she said. “Humans don’t buy anatomically correct ventricles.”

Penelope nodded.

“In the Middle Ages, people believed birds began mating in mid-February. Poets ran with it. Then Victorian-era manufacturers weaponized sentimentality.”

Maurice frowned.

“Victorians ruined everything.”

“They invented mass-produced Valentine cards,” Penelope said. “With lace, poetry, and guilt.”

Bob looked worried.

“Guilt?”

“Yes. If you didn’t send one, you were a monster.”

Maurice laughed.

“Finally, a system I respect.”

The Card Debate Begins

Bob spread several Valentine cards on the table. He had taken them from a drugstore display.

Somehow.

No one asked how.

“Who are these for?” Bernice asked.

Bob blushed.

“Well… I thought maybe… we could exchange them. For journalistic research.”

Maurice squinted.

“Why does this one say ‘You Complete Me’?”

“Because” Penelope said gently, “humans fear being emotionally insufficient.”

Maurice snorted.

“This one says, ‘I’d Be Lost Without You.’ That’s just admitting poor navigation.”

Bernice picked up a glittery card.

“This says ‘You’re My Lobster.’”

Bob tilted his head.

“Are lobsters romantic?”

“No,” Maurice said. “They scream when boiled.”

“Like humans on dating apps,” Bernice added.

Who Should Get a Valentine?

Bob looked thoughtful.

“I was thinking of sending one to the Mail Carrier.”

Everyone stared.

“The one who brings your chew toys?”

“Yes.”

Maurice shook his head.

“That’s transactional affection.”

Penelope folded her wings.

“Historically, Valentines were often anonymous.”

Bernice brightened.

“Ooo. Emotional drive-by shootings.”

Bob perked up.

“So I could send one without signing it?”

“Yes.”

“To everyone?”

“Technically.”

Maurice grinned.

“You should send 200 anonymous cards saying ‘I Know What You Did.’”

Penelope glared.

“Do not.”

Bernice wrote that down anyway.

Weird Answers to Foolish Questions

Bob raised another paw.

“Why do humans get so upset if Valentine’s Day isn’t perfect?”

Penelope answered first.

“Because modern romance has been over-scripted.”

Bernice answered second.

“Because Instagram.”

Maurice answered last.

“Because they were promised emotional fireworks and got a coupon for mozzarella sticks.”

Bob nodded solemnly.

“Why roses?” he asked.

“Symbol of love,” Penelope said.

“Symbol of thorns,” Maurice said.

“Symbol of debt,” Bernice said.

Bob sighed.

“Why do people break up right after Valentine’s Day?”

Penelope hesitated.

“Reality.”

Maurice shrugged.

“Credit card bills.”

Bernice grinned.

“Leftover candy clarity.”

A Modest Proposal from the Newsroom

By mid-afternoon, the table was buried in candy, cards, and historical footnotes.

Bob stood.

“I think we’ve been doing this wrong.”

Everyone looked at him.

“Valentine’s Day shouldn’t be about pressure,” he said. “Or money. Or pretending you’re emotionally fluent.”

Maurice blinked.

“Who replaced Bob?”

“It should be about saying something true,” Bob continued. “Even if it’s small.”

Penelope smiled.

“That’s surprisingly wise.”

Bernice wiped a tear with her wing.

“I hate when sincerity happens without warning.”

Bob handed each of them a card.

Maurice read his.

It said:

You are difficult.
But interesting.
Which is better than boring.

He nodded.

“Fair.”

Penelope’s read:

Thank you for knowing things
and not being smug about it.

She adjusted her glasses.

“Mostly accurate.”

Bernice’s read:

You see everything.
Please don’t publish it.

She beamed.

Bob’s own card, which he had written to himself, read:

Good dog.
Keep trying.

He tucked it into his collar.

The Moral, Such As It Is

Valentine’s Day began with goats and blood, passed through martyrdom and poetry, and ended up wrapped in pink plastic.

Along the way, it picked up expectations, insecurities, and a troubling number of edible undergarments.

But somewhere under the glitter and marketing, the original impulse remains:

Tell someone they matter.

Preferably without threatening them.
Preferably without debt.
And preferably before the candy goes on clearance.

At Scribe Safari, we recommend:

Say something honest.
Give something small.
And if all else fails, share chocolate.