Hey Dad,
Just checking in from Spencerville. Life’s good here, weather’s great and dogs are aplenty. My tattoo has been turning heads, even got some attention from a pretty poodle. I’m still navigating the culinary maze, trying to avoid any trace of veggies. There’re rumors about strange occurrences but Possum and I are hanging tough. Love and Licks, Rocdog.

Listen to the story here

In the idyllic realm of Spencerville, I took a stroll down the bone-studded white sands of Beagle Beach, Rocco by my side. His red fawn coat, catching the sunset’s glow, seemed to set him ablaze. He was, as they say, a sight for sore eyes.

Off in the distance, the barks of joy from Brindle Brown Boxer Beach echoed through the evening air. Spencerville was bursting with life, with characters as colorful as the shops that lined Main Street: ‘Best in Show Photography’, ‘The Canine Cafe’, and, of course, ‘The Doggy Depot’.

I settled into Pup-tizers, as Rocco, ever the charmer, had attracted the attention of a particularly pretty poodle. Her lascivious sidelong look at his tattoo was hard to miss. In Spencerville, tattoos were the talk of the town, but Rocco had always been the talk of the town stripped of all fanciful trappings.

‘”No Pooched Potatoes today, sir?” asked the waiter, a wiry Whippet with a sparkling apron.

“No, I’m afraid Rocco isn’t partial to potatoes, or anything that reminds him of vegetables.” I chuckled, as I watched him sniff disdainfully at an offering of a stray Veggie Pup-Cake by the smitten poodle. The eternal conundrum, to attain his favorite Pup-Cake, devoid of his detested vegetables. Woe was the life of dear Rocco, navigating the gastronomical landscape of Spencerville.

The wind whispered tales as we sauntered through streets alive with creatures living their second lives. From Husky Hill to Beagle Beach, each corner of Spencerville sang its stories. But there were places it whispered about, like the rumors of oddities that surrounded the likes of Rocco. Strange events, stranger pets. I felt a chill in the wind that carried tales of peculiar sightings, chilling phenomena, hushed barks in the night.

Rocco, as brave as he was, seemed unfazed. His beloved squeaky toy, Possum, seemed to give him a sense of courage. Or maybe it was the wealth of friends he had, the countless faces that broke into delighted grins at his sight, the scores of tails that wagged in harmony as he trotted by.

Time in Spencerville passed like seasons in a dance, with Rocco as the song, a symphony of fur, bones, and bewitching curiosity. My days wouldn’t wax without a spot of his fur annoying the life out of me, neither would they wane without his snore echoing like soft music on the hearth. Even though the peculiar tremors beneath our feet, the murmurs of strange happenings, and the whispers of an impending storm wafted about unchecked, Rocco trotted on, a steady presence amid the oddities of the enchanting hamlet.

As the sun set and Spencerville lit up like a star beneath a twilight quilt, the photographs of a perfect day found their place on the mantle. The spirit of Spencerville hummed in the evening air, and Rocco, my dear Rocco, looked more mysterious than ever beneath the stars. He, like Spencerville, was a testament to the mesmerizing blend of the familiar, the endearing, and the strange – a symphony of life waiting to be played out till the break of dawn.

The End.

Share This Story: