Hey pal, Chacho here. Midsummer in Spencerville is a sensory fiesta of floating tacos and haunted leashes, a wrinkle in reality that’s as delectable as it is disconcerting. For here, even a storyteller like me can become part of an extraordinary tale. Looking forward to your next visit, until then: beware of levitating lettuce. – The Champion of Chihuahuas, Chacho.

Listen to the story here

As Chacho, the architect of canine mischief in sunny Spencerville, I painfully admit to carrying many tales. Yet none of them seem as strange as the one ventured on that bewitching midsummer day. The day I refer to is known amongst my fellow companions of Spencerville as the day we faced ‘the peculiar phenomenon of the supernatural soft shell taco’.

Imagine our surprise, sitting in the Pup ‘n’ Go Taco Joint, when a soft shell taco – simple as you please – levitated off one of the tables, bobbing about in mid-air. Even my derided friend, the mailman, glanced up from his Pup-a-ccino. “Well, this takes Siesta Tuesday to a whole new level,” he murmured, a phrase so wittily apt I almost forgave him his daily transgressions.

Mutual enemy or not, the sight of a histrionic flying taco and my inherited love for it, brought the frenemy and me together. After all, Spencerville life required adapting to peculiar rules.

On the same day, as I made my way through the merry lanes of Spencerville, from the exotic fragrance of Doggy Delight that filled the streets to the soft whispers of Charles Park, I noticed a distinct element of strangeness. The usually bustling premises of Canine Café were devoid of patrons, and even Fergus, the fluffy feline, hung back.

“Is it these floating tacos?” I asked him, casting another worried glance at the rebellious hovering specimen.

The feline, forever the philosopher, lounged lazily under the South Siberian Summit, a placid smirk graced his face. “Chacho, Spencerville is woven out of countless paradoxes, floating tacos are merely the overstuffed ones,” he nonchalantly replied, before sauntering off towards the White Westie Woods.

Although Fergus’ laxness eased my apprehensions, I continued my fact-finding mission. At Best in Show Photography, I overheard two Bulldogs excitedly whispering about the ‘haunted leash’ at Tail Wagger’s Tailor, and I could hardly ignore the ‘flying rubber toys’ reported near Lower Golden Gate Gardens.

As tales of these strange occurrences travelled through our tight-knit community, our shared bewilderment increased. But what could a tight-knit community of animals do except observe, ruminate and record so that one day, when our beloved guardians join us, we can regale them with tales of supernatural soft-shell tacos and haunted leashes?

And so, here in Spencerville, in a world bristling with quirks and quaint charm, we live on, united in our differences – strangely typical, yet typically strange. As for me, I am Chacho, the recount-er of the tales of Spencerville. I theorize on paranormal floating tacos, commas, and lettuce; the only prediction I can make is to ensure I remain a picky eater. For who knows, in Spencerville, even lettuce might levitate next.

The End.