Heya Human,

Just lounged in royal finery post a dashing squeaky fox chase with Max and Daisy. Dodged the nefarious lemon swipe, feasted and frolicked with my noble pawtners in mischief! Resting up for tomorrow’s regal adventures. Spencerville thrives under the loving paw of yours truly!

Tail wags and dreamy snuggles,
Bella 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

Ah, Spencerville. The grand stage of doggy nobility; a kingdom where every fire hydrant is a throne and each bark echoes the lineage of canine aristocracy. Here I sit, Bella, the revered Duchess of Spencerville, casting an immaculate white-shadowed silhouette against the sumptuous backdrop of Western Labradoodle Lake.

It was a fateful Spencerville morning, blossoms of sunlight peering over the horizon like nosy neighbors. My ears perked at the sound of rustling leaves, as I lounged in the comforts of East Pug Palace. I pondered on my royal duties, all the while my soul pirouetting at the thought of what joyous escapades the day might bring.

“Ah, what’s a regal day without a sniff of the new?” I mused. My paws pranced to Canine Couture Clothing where the latest ruffles awaited me. As I paraded in a frock that was neither too frilly nor too plain, but just pawfectly me, the court of common pups gazed with awe. I can’t lie, the glances were flattering, like a belly rub to my ego.

“Milady!” boomed a voice most baritone—and most certainly not human. “Max,” I said, the drawl lingering with a warm familiarity. Max the beagle, the Earl of Howlers, who could wake the sleepiest of cats with one earnest bay, strutted towards me, nose high and tail higher.

“Bella, ready to chase the royal fox?” he asked with his snoot in the air.

“Certainly, but only after tea, dear Max,” I replied. Our banquet, suitably named Dog-gone Good BBQ, yet, I favored Fetch-N-Bites for its delicate servings fit for a dainty snout.

Shortly after morsels of succulent chicken that teased the edges of my appetite, our pursuit commenced—but not the literal fox, mind you. Ah, dear reader, ’twas a squeaky fox, regal in its rubbery red splendor, a gift from the Royal Groom Room.

Through Brown Boxer Beach we gallivanted, Max and Daisy the pug—a duchess in her own right—nipping at our tail. Winds of change whispering across the land, not a tad troubled that our rendezvous might tumble a sandcastle or two. Daisy, in her pug-ish plumpness, followed with a gusto that defied physics and snorts that defied silence.

“The fox thinks he can outsmart the Duchess of Spencerville? Not on my watch!” I declared, springing with a relentless zeal toward my playful quarry.

Our game reached a crescendo by the time we collapsed onto the soft tapestry of the local park, our panting a symphony complementing the serene ambiance. Paws entwined, we regaled in tales past, our laughter a warm embrace that filled the air.

Yet, amidst this revelry, I’d catch a citrus scent—stealthy, repugnant, an affront to my nose. A lemon swipe across my gourmet dreams, enough to send me reeling towards dreams of evening treats and snoozes.

“Ah! A Duchess has her weak spots!” Max ribbed, his chuckles dancing through the air like dandelion seeds in the wind.

“To befall citrus in one’s court…” Daisy added with mirth, “…one would think it treason!”

But these jests and japes are the spice of my existence, as necessary as the harmony of my siblings in our collective play. For in this land of boundless joy, it is the friendship, the camaraderie, the love, that is the true crown jewels we wear upon our heads.

So here, in Spencerville, we frolic and reign—a tale of tails twirling proudly against the fabric of our lives. As the sun nests below the crest of the horizon, I, Bella, your fur-covered monarch, rest upon my favored cushion, awaiting new adventures with my court, ready to embrace tomorrow’s joys in the human-like existence we so relish.

My eyes close, dreaming of the day when my beloved Harper family shall pass through the golden gates of Spencerville. Until then, I watch over this furry realm with a mischievous charm and a heart brimming with anticipation. For in Spencerville, my reign—our bliss—knows no end.

The End.