Gus PawWord Story

Hey Mom,

Call me Fur Rocket now. Your ordinary bulldog is a punk rock king in Spencerville, a realm from Retriever River to Chihuahua Castle. Stubborn and kind ruler I am, battles with vacuums and ear-cleaners my fame. Watermelon my kryptonite. Still love my cardboard boxes and the joy life offers. Oatmeal Cream Pie of life, I’m devouring one crumb at a time here. Waiting for reunion.

Gus Gus

Listen to the story here

Well, darlings, I’m here to unfold the most intriguing tale of Spencerville; an epic canine melodrama per se. It revolves around the flamboyantly tan and muscled body of yours truly – Gus, the English Bulldog.

Just take a moment and think — your region run by a dog, a bulldog. Almost sounds like a bad prank, right? But not in Spencerville, where the extraordinary gets shot to a whole new level. You see, everything has a flip side. Back on earth, I was just an ordinary bulldog, living my life in the small patch of backyard, occasionally terrorizing the postman. Here, in Spencerville, I’m the punk rock royalty. My singular white stripe? Consider it my bloody crown.

My realm stretches from the bubbling banks of the Southern Golden Retriever River to the towering North Chihuahua Castle. I rule with benevolence and a hint of stubbornness, always game for some frolicking around, and an uncontrollable passion for cardboard boxes. Almost makes me look like a benevolent hobo king, isn’t it?

Young puppies thrive on my famous anecdotes of the ear-cleaning monsters at the vets and my wars with the nemesis vacuum cleaner. The elderly ones find solace in my disdain for chlorinated pools. Watermelon, you ask? Let’s just say it’s our local poison, a kind of Spencervillian Kryptonite.

You’d think, running a realm would take the joy out of life. Au contraire! My afternoons are often punctuated by spontaneous athletic performances around the South Poodle Pond. Photos of my airborne, muscular frame against the beautiful pond background have been known to adorn the shop walls of ‘The Woofy Bakery’ and ‘The Groom Room.’

My evenings usually oscillate between the haunts of ‘Fishy Bites’ and ‘The Bark Shak.’ The humans do not appear here. They are mere memories, their love transform into a purpose in our afterlives. We all are waiting, the reunited joy a shared dream. But in the meantime, life is an Oatmeal Cream Pie that I devour one crumb at a time.

Spencervillian nights are for me to retreat to my abode, lazing around my hoarded Beanbone treasures. It may sound melodramatic, yet it’s the life any pet would be envious of.

It’s true that loneliness often lurks in the corners. But remember, in Spencerville, we believe in the comfort of imaginations. So, it’s never really lonely. I am my own best friend; I am my own jester at court.

Do remember, in the grand scheme of ‘The Crowned Pet,’ there’s no Gus without Spencerville and no town without a ruling bulldog meandering through life, stubby white-toed feet and all, forever accompanied by a phantom punk rock tune.

The End.