Vincent PawWord Story

My name is Vincent. I am a male Newfoundland. My visual description is Black and white Newfoundland dog. Very handsome with more white than black. He was 170 lb when healthy . He had freckles..

“Hey ma and pa, your Baby V here – made it big in Spencerville. Raised eyebrows, not for my weight, but my unique charm and taste for fish BBQ (who knew?). Ignored the beach, throne wasn’t my game. Stood tall for love & comradery, avoiding cat drama. Adventures keep coming, bear hugs – Baby.”

Listen to the story here

Like many tales spun, mine kicks off in Spencerville, that whimsical haven for pets. Boxer Beach ebbed and flowed as the backdrop of my tale, a story intertwining courage, friendship, and food—a tale of our beloved Vincent.

As I watched over the townscape from my perch atop Fawn Pug Palace, Spencerville’s grand humidity pricked at my black and white coat. At 170 pounds, you attract more than mere glances, even in a place as diverse as this. I was a prime spectacle in my own right, the Newfoundland who stayed far from the beach. Quite paradoxical, isn’t it? But then, Vincent was nothing if not thrillingly contradictory.

A steadfast friend I’ve always been, and while my bravery is often proclaimed, truth be told, I adore my usual rituals, the couch-naps, the biscuit treats. ‘Bone Appetit!’ ‘Dog-gone Good BBQ!’ – words to make a heart race. But alas, Vincent, they said, was a peculiar chap. To the humans who knew me well, my distinct palate and denial of certain meats were clearly documented. Fish, my dear friends, speaks to me on levels no other cuisine quite can.

Yet, my idiosyncrasies ran deeper than food fancies. My aversion to merrymaking was as well-known as my coat, quite an exception in this merry town. Chuckling, I remember all too well the raucous applause that echoed through Spencerville when I strolled into The Dapper Dog Salon for the first time.

The power play in our town was less subtle than a Husky’s howl. With the throne in sight, I had my precious Princess Victoria, a Saint Bernard of regal descent, by my side. Spencerville might have been a playground, but it was also a battlefield where allegiances could tilt the balance. Vincent, they reckoned, was a potentate in waiting. Yet, I sought not the throne but the camaraderie.

One twilight, as the hush fell over Greyhound Grove, a clandestine gathering unfolded. Every whispered word, every surreptitious glance hinted at something brewing. You see, dear reader, my tale runs deeper than just a dog’s whims and witticisms. I saw an alliance in the making. Boxers from the beach, Pugs from the palace, Greyhounds from the grove, we were all pawns in our own ‘Pet Throne Games’.

A momentous event was afoot. A dog’s rebellion? An overthrowing of the cat council? I couldn’t be sure. But what I knew, courtesy of my Semper Fidelis ethos, was that I was in it for rightful reasons. Love for Victoria, love for Spencerville. Not power, but community, was my wish. Yes, independence is my trait, and I can be a bit of a curmudgeon, but, in the Pet Throne Games of intellect and power, a kind heart sometimes trumps all.

An unforeseen adventure was unravelling, and Vincent, the stalwart Newfoundland, was at its very heart.

The End.