“Hey Gram, Russ here! Spent the day as the Petfather, brunched on cheesesteaks at Bow Wow Bistro with the boys. Dealing with the drama of bones and Frisbees, just another day in paradise! Ended with good laughs and good dogs, the usual. Not too shabby being king. 🐾 – Your Grandpup, Fat Russell”

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From the moment I opened my eyes, illuminated by the soft dawn diffusing through the lace curtains of my cozy little shack at Black Bulldog Bay, I knew it was going to be one of “those” days. A feeling I got, I suppose— sometimes a Bulldog just knows.

“Hey, Russ,” came the soft call of Millie. Her voice was warm enough to toast a loaf, carrying the rhythm of things left unsaid. She never had to say much; her gentle smile spoke a sonnet.

“I hear those Philly Cheesesteaks at Bow Wow Bistro ain’t too shabby,” Wrigley piped up, always seeking the next culinary trail, the poor starving mutt.

I chuckled, my gaze lingering on the deserted beach, the ebb and flow of waves seemingly in tune with my thoughts. “Boys,” I called over my shoulder to Fenway Brown and Spencer, “Drop those Frisbees, we’ve got a brunch to make.”

Leaving my humble abode, we sauntered down the cobblestone streets, the crisp morning air playfully tugging at our ears. Each at Pug Palace bowed in reverence or fear, I never bothered with which. Wynwood Barkery hummed gently, bakers drowned in their early morning serenade of pies and bread.

“You think it’s easy? Being the Petfather?” I mumbled in-between bites of my cheesesteak. The boys merely exchanged glances, amusement dancing in their eyes. “I deal with whispers and wagging tails— dealers in bones and Frisbees, and then right at the end of it, still, I am expected to fetch.”

For a moment, silence was our sole companion at the old oak table, disturbed only by faint clatter of cutlery and the soft rustle of my ears. “It’s not all bad, friend,” ventured Fenway, his wise eyes reflecting eons of shared adventures and memories. “Think of the balls, the treats- the respect, dare I say?”

Their consolations drew from me a resonant laughter, one that rang through the quaint bistro and bounced off the decorated walls. I pondered their words, swirls of thought gelling together, pausing my story for a moment, “Perhaps,” I sighed, taking another bite and languidly leaning into my chair, “Perhaps, boys, it’s not so bad.”

Our laughter echoed through the halls of Spencerville, rustling the papers in the Wagging Tail Bookstore, and snuffed out the candles in the Dapper Dog Salon. We were there, living, existing, laughing—reigning in our kingdom.

The day might have started as one of “those” days, but in the flawless execution of Spencerville style, it ended with chortles, cheesesteaks and a bunch of good dogs by my side. After all, such is the life of a Petfather, a dichotomy of love and authority, a balance as delicate yet as robust as the soul of Fat Russell himself. For in the mundane world, he might have been an ordinary English Bulldog named Russ, but here, amidst the picturesque lanes of Spencerville—he was the Petfather, and that was everything but ordinary.

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