“Hey Mom, Spencerville’s not the same without Vegas. Her laughter echoes in the waves, our shared victories hang over Retriever River, the scent of shrimp lingers, and her memory dances in the cityscape. The farm? Still her least favorite. The vet? Pure horror. Spencerville feels empty, yet brims with her immortality. Forever a part of us. Until we meet again… Vegas, Lucky.”

Listen to the story here.

In the twilight of Spencerville, I found myself standing once again at the shores of Brindle Brown Boxer Beach. This was our beach, mine and Vegas’, a perfect paradise where memories were polished like pebbles by the ceaseless passage of time.

Mornings ushered in with the symphony of the crashing waves, the sun peeking from the slumber of night as if coerced by Vegas’ lively barks. She would prance around in her distinct white coat, glinting resplendently against the morning sun. Her energy contagious, her love for life inspiring.

Retriever River often found Vegas and me as its frequent visitors. Here, her favored games took a lively turn. Fetch was not just a game, it was a performance. Vegas would stand poised, her eyes trained on Dice, her eternal Poker Chip-shaped companion. With a swift throw that sent Dice skating over the flowing river, our game commenced. Oh, how she would slice through the waters! A streaming comet of white and splashes until she reached her beloved Dice. Every victory celebrated with a triumphant bark, echoing against the embankments.

Her fondness for Shrimp Cocktail marked our frequent visits to ‘Paws On The Grill.’ The wafting flavors alluring us to the best seafood dishes in town. I remember her excitement, the sparkle in her eye at the sight of the Shrimp Cocktail, a gastronomic serenade that played harmoniously with her taste buds. She sat with queenly grace, only breaking to cast her distasteful glance upon sorrowful individuals who dared to bring tofu into her sight.

Though a creature of unwavering loyalty and boundless affection, there was a side of Vegas only we, her close companions, were privy to. On the shores of our beach, in the premises of Pug Palace, in the chatter of ‘The Bark Shak’, Vegas was the tactful matriarch, the respected figurehead, the magnanimous leader.

Fat Russell, with his stout demeanor and bulldog spirit, was her steadfast lieutenant. Sinatra, with his Huskie charm, carried the air of a consigliere. Each having a relevance in our lives, yet none could replace the other. Her kingdom, not ruled with ferocity but embraced with pure love and loyalty, a network that extended to all corners of Spencerville.

After a day of running our licit undertakings coated as illicit affairs orchestrated cleverly around pile tosses, tug-of-wars, and food heists, Vegas would retire to our shared quarters. The night would find us lounging at The Woofy Bakery, partaking in sweet delights and whispering tales of the day’s conquests.

Yet amidst all of this, the vibrant cityscape and the mysterious mountains were where her adventurous heart found solace. The strange yet comforting contrast of the concrete labyrinth, piercing heights, and the vast greenery, a myriad of experiences that fed her explorer’s spirit. An anomaly for some, a norm for us. Yet the farm, oh the aversion she carried for the farm! It was as if Spencerville contained a small arena of aversion, paralleling only her dread of… the-vet.

In her absence, Spencerville hums a different tune. Lively, yes. Fulfilling, perhaps. But missing the distinct rhythm of the Vegas ballad. But of course, one day, we will reunite. Until then, her ethereal pawprints embedded in the sands of Boxer Beach and the memories that permeate every corner of Spencerville string together an ode to Vegas. The matriarch, the explorer, the leader… my Vegas.

The End.