“Hey folks, Vincent here. I’ve been living it up–tipping spice racks, inspiring fish biscuit menus, and refusing castles without plush sofas. Met Princess Victoria, we’re partners in crime against ear cleanings! Miss you guys, so I’ve sent a pigeon with an invite over. Love always, your Bear Cub.”

Listen to the story here

I jolted awake to the soft mewing of the Spencerville Morning Herald delivery-cat on my porch, a tuxedo colored furball with a newsboy cap. New York had its newsboys, we had newscats. I uncrumpled myself from the disordered bed, feeling a twinge of loneliness that’d become an uninvited breakfast guest since Vincent moved to Spencerville.

Wiping my eyes, I grabbed the newspaper, glancing at the headline: “Newfoundland Villa Gets Rambunctious New Neighbor.” A chuckle escaped my lips, the first one since Vincent’s departure. Oh, Vincent, you theatrical canine, always hogging the limelight.

I read about how Vincent had wasted no time in shaking up the quaint order of Spencerville, toppling the spice racks at Pet Partners Pet Supplies in a rather reminiscent food-scattering frenzy, a performance Vincent had perfected for his own amusement, while ensuring I never ran out of pasta.

He’d made himself comfortable at The Groom Room, where he lorded over as their unofficial mascot, probably signing autographs or something. I smiled remembering how Vincent would preen under the attention, lounging nonchalantly while the doggie starlet inside him reveled in the adoration.

Then there was that matter at Paws-a-Latte, where Vincent, in true bistro fashion, had claimed his peculiar taste a cuisine revolution. Rumors flew about how Paws-a-Latte centered a new dish around our Vincent’s peculiar allergies and preferences. Fish biscuits! A tribute and potential bestseller. I shook my head, a wistful smile curling at the corners.

My heart moved to the heavy patter of his absence; it echoed around me in a thundering vacancy. The magical town he now inhabited seemed still galaxies away. Squinting my eyes at the sun’s brazen entrance, I sighed longingly, admitting with a comedically miserable recognition that I missed that old furball.

Interrupting my sentimental tirade was the newspaper bit about Vincent’s stubborn dismissal of North Chihuahua Castle due to its lack of plush sofas and his inevitable surrender to Southern Golden Retriever River, drawn by the lush lounging possibilities.

Eager for companionship, Vincent was building bonds with Princess Victoria over their mutual disdain for ear cleaning and ambush attacks on Pickle toys. I chuckled at the delightful mischiefs that paired, sprinkling joy-filled mischief all over Spencerville.

Just as my morning melancholy reached its crescendo, I received a pigeon-mail from Spencerville, a lively chirp carrying Vincent’s paw printed words. That rascal had managed to craft an invitation for me to visit Spencerville, knowing we’d reunite again—that was enough to bring a genuine laugh.

“So, Vincent,” I muttered, startling the sleepy echoes of my kitchen, “Apparently you’ve become the toast of pet town,” I hid a smile behind my coffee cup, “and I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

The End.