“Hey Dad, swapped city hustle for Spencerville paradise! Mastering the art of tacos and mock deer-leg war trophies. Turns out mountains and forests are more my style, while vacuums—not so much. Oh, and I might run for ‘Mayor of Mischief’ here. Wish me luck? – Fleabag”

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In a universe, within which exists a multitude of other universes (as universes are wont to do), there is a town named Spencerville. Not that Spencerville is so special of itself, but due to the peculiar fact that it happens to be a doggie paradise, where the residents roam around, frolicking and savoring taco delights from the legendary Pup ‘n’ Go Taco Joint. One of these residents happens to be a certain four-legged fellow named Percy.

I met Percy on a rather balmy day near the radiant waters of Poodle Pond. His initial demeanor was a rather endearing mix of chaos and order, much like a perfectly assembled cup of tea with the teaspoon still stickling out, winking at you. Being a sturdy, tricolor swathe of fur with an almost human-like penchant for mischief, Percy was difficult to overlook.

He had a rather peculiar fondness for Deer Legs. Not that he was a deer-blooded carnivore, but as a mock furniture item. An uncanny sense of amusement swept across his bright eyes as he pranced around, the Deer Leg held high like a victorious war trophy. And let’s not start on his dietary adventures. Percy’s ability to turn the ordinary into a gastronomical exploration was something akin to turning frog princes into human ones, if you get my drift.

His abundant love for the vastness of mountains, the exotic embrace of forests, and the refreshing appeal of pools would astonish any living creature, especially those of the two-legged variety. His dislike, however, for the high-tempo life of the city or the barren expanses of the desert was as predictable as to why cats detest water or birds covet the sky.

Percy, in his black, white and tan guise, liked salad about as much as he liked the noise of a vacuum or the sight of a delivery person. Why any dog would fear a delivery person is an unsolved enigma, much like why chickens suddenly stop midway while crossing a road.

Apparently, Percy had a less-than-cordial relationship with the local vet, who always had this comic twitch about his nose that set Percy off into a cacophony of barks paired with a flurry of dashing around like a lunatic.

Enter the Happy Hounds Dog Walking services, around Percy, and it’s mayhem. With his bubbly mates, a chipper gait and an appetite for adventure, he would create pandemonium, knock over things and create quite a scene – a comedy of errors, if you will, that would end in a heap of furry creatures, panting and laughing, at the banks of the Golden Retriever River.

If Spencerville ever held an election, Percy would undoubtedly stand for “Mayor of Mischief” and would unsurprisingly win in a landslide. Trust me, as far as comedy, chaos and confusion go; no one does it better than our very own Percy.

The End.

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