“Hey Ma, your adventurous Sugar-face here, carrying out secretive missions played out in toy exchanges to help our fellow Spencerville pals. Dug up a dinosaur with reminders of my love for crackers, mild distaste for bananas, and paw-written promises of a glorious reunion one day. Love from Kirby, your covert canine comrade.”

Listen to the story here

It began on a fine morning, as I remember, when Kirby, that devil-may-care English Bulldog from Spencerville, called me to his favorite local haunt, Whiskers and Wings. Soon, I was partaking a mocha latte while Kirby was munching Goldfish crackers, as he rotated a glance between his companions and the road.

“Ah,” he smirked in anticipation, swinging his wrinkly tail with a great show of composure, “the hour is nearly upon us.”

Suddenly, a group of canines dashed towards Black Bulldog Bay. “The signal!” Kirby exclaimed, tossing a cracker in the air before catching it skillfully in his mouth. With a twinkle in his eyes matched only by the playfulness of his heart, he sprung from the chair, taking off towards the pandemonium.

As we raced (or more accurately, ambled as per our bulldog speed) towards Western Husky Hill, Kirby, the clandestine agent he was, mixed with the multitude of dogs, now barking, now silent. They were all vigilant, focused, ready to engage in an age-old tradition of Spencerville, more mystery than tradition – the dispatching of messages to their former homes.

I followed him to The Tail Wagger’s Tailor, a front for the secret operation. “In here,” Kirby whispered, urging me inside. The Pooch Playhouse was bustling with dogs trading secret codes, packaged as innocent toys.

His paw nudged a Purple dinosaur toy, a duplicate of his personal favorite, “This,” said our picaresque hero, his voice a conspiratorial whisper, “holds the message for my family.”

As we made our way to the significant locale in this enterprise, Greyhound Grove, Kirby, showed no signs of his dreaded enemies – bananas and baths. Instead, the mere prospect of his mission strengthened him.

Once at the Grove, full of fellow spies, all with their toys, I watched as Kirby fervently dug up a hole in the ground, burying the dinosaur with care before whispering, ” help them remember their love for me; remind them of my fondness for crackers and my aversion to bananas.”

His mission, carried out with an almost human-like intelligence, reaffirmed the legend of Spencerville, the nearly perfect place for beloved pets anticipating a glorious reunion with their departed masters.

Indeed, my dearest Kirby, the unwavering bulldog, remains an essential thread in this fascinating tapestry of Spencerville, and I find myself an enriched companion, privileged to assist him in his clandestine endeavors.

The End.