“Hey folks, King Vincent here! Had a royal romp in dog paradise known as Spencerville. Me n’ Princess Victoria have been living the life, tasting gourmet Pup-Peroni and conquering doggy challenges. Caused a bit of a ruckus in the granary (spaghetti & flour make great paw print art, by the way). Spent the day lounging around at the Silver Siberian Summit. Just another day in the life of a Bear Cub. Kisses, Buddha.”

Listen to the story here

Reflecting on the sun-drenched memory of Spencerville, I am, in this moment, King Vincent – a giant amongst dogs in a world of whimsy and wagging tails. A world where troubles shrink into distant horizons, overshadowed by expanse of wonders – Cream Maltese Meadows and Beagle Beach. My immensely white-spotted coat mimics star-strewn skies – and in me, the sun rises and sets on this black and white cosmos, drawn delicately against the backdrop of my formidable frame.

My reign is neither monumental nor solitary. The enigmatic Princess Victoria, a fluffy, slobbering mess of fur and love, stands guard – a leviathan painted in strokes of gentle friendship and sisterhood. An odd pairing, I daresay – a Newfoundland and a Saint Bernard – each thriving on the other’s warmth like the conjoined roots of an ancient tree.

Days are eventful and evenings, melodious. “The Bark Shak” we frequent serves the most exquisite Pup-Peroni, its divine texture gloried by my palate, though I must confess, fish and biscuits triumph as the more delectable daily victuals. I shan’t forget my nightly prize either – a dental bone, crunched in triumph after victorious days.

Survival veils itself as a theatric performance here – with doggy challenges lining the pathways, each more riveting than the last. Yet, in the greater play of life, I bathe not in adversity, but in sandless shores of Spencerville. The deserts and the farms, less enticing than the smooth pebble pathways of my home. An adventure devised, not for the thrill of competitiveness but for the stirrings of camaraderie.

The granary, I confess, endured a minor Civil War. Our noses plunged amidst stacks of hidden treasures. The spaghetti and flour, they cover innocent paw prints scattered across the marble. Ah, the sweet scent of civil dissent!

Sportive frolic ends as quickly as it begins. A quick ear-clean, despite itself, seems like a torturous school exam! And then, amid the harmonious music of the wind, a hush falls. The exhaustion of play, sinking its amicable claws into the thick of our coats, settling in like a comfortable friend.

For it is here, in this pet haven, resplendent with the echoes of companionship that I, Vincent, recline on my favoured couch, oblivious to the rain drumming on windows and the distant thunder. “Silver Siberian Summit”, my idyllic refuge from the world, safeguarding me from undesirable solitude, with the promise of a motley contingent of faithful companions adding multitudes to my existence.

This, dear reader, is the epic tale of my life, written in chewed edges and chaotic kitchen floors, painted in flour-strewn messes and framed by the charming streets of sublime Spencerville.

The End.