Hey, Mom! It’s your brave girl, Princess Rose Marie, checking in (no, not from the Kibble Cuisine, I promise). Owning my days defending our turf against the Western Fawn Pug bullies, policing around with Quackers, and definitely NOT eating carrots (our secret). A li’l scare from booming thunder, but no biggie – I ran to safety. Oh, also, currently dreaming up a world full of grilled chicken. Wish you were here, miss you! Woofs and wags, Rosie xoxo.

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I couldn’t resist a chuckle as Rosie darted through the Eastern White Westie Woods, her tan coat shimmering under the dappled sunlight. There was a sense of merriment in the air, the atmosphere only disrupted by the occasional grumblings of the inhabitants of Western Fawn Pug Palace in the distance.

Sauntering behind her, I reminisce about our earlier feat — a raid on the Kibble Cuisine. You see, Rosie has an incurable penchant for the restaurant’s legendary grilled chicken. Her taste buds, quite amusingly, have a discernible palate that rivals any fancy sommelier you’d find in a swanky spot in your part of town.

If only carrots were chicken, she’d probably happily chomp on them. Alas, the elephant ear size, orange sticks charade as healthy treats and strictly belong under the bed, an unseen corner in our abode.

Amidst all the delightful chaos, Rosie’s squeaky rubber duck, amusingly named Quackers, is the Sheriff of our Spencerville. Quackers’ squeak was as important as the town’s ringing belles, assuring the denizens of a peaceful existence unless, of course, Rosie decided she was more of a warrior than a serenading cowgirl.

“Heard Rosie schooled the Pug Palace’s bullies,” drawled Cooper, our town’s pseudo sheriff, a Golden Retriever with a heart as expansive as the Labradoodle Lake that our quaint town borders. Rosie, the silent nightingale of our pet world, has a knack for standing up to mischief. A friendly wag of her delicate tail or a sharp spark in her eyes — she does it her way.

When the Pinewood Park or the alleyways of Pawsitively Purrfect Pet Store echo with booming thunder, it’s amusing how Rosie shifts gears. From the pint-sized warrior, she transforms into a scared little girl, seeking refuge in the arms of her human momma. Thunderstorms, her Achilles’ heel. But then, we all have some chinks in our ever so perfect armor, don’t we?

Around the bonefire near Fetch! Toys and Treats, her tales of bravery, her loyalty towards Spencerville, and her aversion for anything remotely related to ‘healthy carrot’ treats become late-night folklore. There’s a sense of imagination as pets stuff their faces with all the Knick-knacks of Bow Wow Bistro, whilst soaking in Rosie’s day-to-day escapades.

Reclining on the grass, with the stars twinkling overhead, I glance at Rosie. Here she was, a testament to the sweetness wrung from the fruit of courage. Her small form still energetic even after a day of multiple adventures. If only every day in Spencerville were as eventful, animated and full of Chicken – Rosie’s version of a utopia.

The End.

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