Yo Ma & Pa,

Epic day in Spencerville! Yours truly, Big Sammy, led the Kennel Crew on a rescue op to save Fat Russell from some diabolical squirrels. Outsmarted traps, rallied the fur troops, and restored peace to pup-town with a dash of heroism. Serving up justice with a side of chicken tonight. Tail wags & love!

– Big Sammy 🐾🦴

Listen to the story here

I’m lounging on Husky Hill, letting the breeze ruffle through my brindle fur when the scent of trouble knocks the wind right out of me. It’s a smell that doesn’t belong in Spencerville, souring the usual fragrance of chicken drumsticks floating on the air from Bark ‘n’ Roll. I roll onto my paws, tennis ball forgotten beside me.

“Something’s wrong,” I mutter, and it’s all the prompt I need for my paws to begin pounding the dirt path, sending up a cloud of dust.

The town, my haven, is splattered with panic today. Dogs bark, tails down, ears flat. At Spa for Paws, there’s more wailing than pampering going on and it’s not about a fashion fur-pas if you catch my drift. The news? It seems Fat Russell—grumpy as a cat in a dog show, but my friend—has gone missing. Captured, they say, by a rogue band of squirrels—nutty to the core, I tell ya.

I barrel through the streets, swerving around a skateboarding Shih Tzu and narrowly avoiding a Chihuahua duo spinning hula hoops outside The Doggy Depot. I skid to a stop outside East Pug Palace, where my team is assembling. There’s Marley, small but mighty, the brains of our little operation. And my bro, Fenway, who’s got the brawn when it’s called for.

“Guys,” I huff out, “we’ve got a mission.”

Marley tilts his head, “You think this is about the chicken he lifted from Fur Tacos last Thursday?”

Fenway snorts, or it could be a bark, hard to say with his muzzle, “Nah, the squirrels probably just want to use him as a doorstop.”

We don’t laugh. This is serious. Our comrade, Fat Russell, with all his snark and slobber, is out there. Alone and possibly contemplating a universe without chicken. Unthinkable.

Without another word, and with Vanilla cookies stuffed in our pockets as sustenance, we embark on our pet rescue mission. What would Tom Cruise do? Probably hang off a plane or something equally dramatic. Us? Well, we’re aiming for stealth.

Past Brown Boxer Beach, with its waves gently scolding the shore, we find the tracks—those tiny, treacherous claw-prints leading into the Whisker Woods. Every crunch of a leaf under paw feels like a timebomb ticking.

We’re deeper into the woods now, the sky just a memory when it happens. A trap! And not figuratively. Fenway yelps as a net sweeps him off the ground, hanging him high like a piñata at a puppy’s birthday bash. Marley’s quick, gnawing through the ropes with the determination of a beaver in a log competition.

“I owe you a tennis ball,” Fenway pants, back on solid earth.

I nod, no time for playful barks, “You owe me two.”

The heart of the woods is where we find him, Fat Russell, looking forlorn as a dog left in the rain, surrounded by a ring of squirrels chattering in unnervingly coordinated fashion.

“Alright, team,” I growl, “let’s show these rodents what it means to mess with the Kennel Crew.”

We launch into action, Marley darting forward as a furry cannonball, scattering squirrels like leaves in a windstorm. I barrel in, a bulldog battleship, while Fenway’s low growl vibrates through the woods, sending shivers through squirrel fur.

It’s chaos. Fur and tails and an unmistakable whiff of Vanilla cookies crushed underfoot.

The squirrels, sensing defeat, scramble away with the haste of scolded schoolchildren, leaving behind our beleaguered buddy, Fat Russell.

His chubby frame stands upright with dignity, despite the ordeal. “Took you long enough,” he says, but there’s a grin breaking through that gruff exterior.

We’re a sight, limping back to town: Fenway with a shredded pocket, Marley missing a cuff of fur, and me, Sampson, with a radish-sized bump on my noggin. But there’s Fat Russell, marching in the middle, nattering about the indignity of it all. And in this instant, Spencerville is perfect again.

As the lights of Chow Hound Café flicker into view and the smell of sizzling chicken wafts over, I think of how stories here, even the nutty ones, always find a way back to where they began—in the warm, messy embrace of family and friends.

Sampson’s tale, my tale, isn’t just one of rescue. It’s about the day the legend grew just a tad larger, where I didn’t just live a human-like existence in Spencerville; I played the hero. And let’s just say, as hero’s dinners go, chicken really does taste better when it’s served with a side of adventure.

The End.