Hey there,

Just checking in from Spencerville – the land of upside-down. Led the gang on today’s epic saga: ducked the newbie brunch spot for The Fetching Deli’s finest chicken, outwitted the great squeaky sea beast of Fetch! Toys, and performed my daily comedy for our human audience. Living the surreal life as their regal, jesting hound. It’s a waggish world, and I’m wagging right back.

Tail wags and licks,
Miley 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

We were somewhere around the border of Spotted Red Beagle Beach, on the edge of the sand, when the adventures began to take hold. I remember saying something like, “I feel a bit lightheaded. Maybe you should drive…” And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us, and the sky was full of what looked like fat poodles and dachshunds, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, which was going about a hundred miles an hour with the top down to Siberian Summit.

This could only happen in Spencerville, where the reality is a script crafted by some cosmic playwright with a flair for the dramatic, and I, Miley, the Italian Greyhound, am one of its unwitting actors. Here we chase the eternal highball, fueled by tender chicken delicacies and the promise of a squeak-toy paradise. It’s about 5:00 PM in Electronic Eden, bathed in the glow of an ever-sunny sky—a handy little trick played by the tech wizards spinning our reality.

I make my morning rounds with the poise of royalty, each stride a testament to my lineage—svelte, quick-footed, high-brow. My posse is already waiting. They’re a motley crew, my gang. There’s Rollo, the wisdom-wrapped St. Bernard, his jowls concealing a secret knowledge of all of Spencerville. And then there’s Paco, the firecracker Chihuahua, so vibrant you could light a fuse on his energy. Together, we strut the streets like we own them—because in a way, we do.

We’re sidestepping the usual haunts—Ruff-n-Ready is too on-the-nose for breakfast, overrun by newbies who haven’t learned to look beyond the veneer. We hit The Fetching Deli for a bite instead, a spot less tacky, more authentic Spencerville. The smells hit you like a symphony, the crescendo a blend of fine meats and freshly baked biscuits.

“They say the creators make this place for the humans,” Paco chirps, gnawing on a beef rib that’s about the same size as him, “but I say we’re the ones getting the real show.”

I nod, fixated on a chicken slice that’s crisp, flavorful—pantomime food perhaps, but damn if it doesn’t hit the spot every time.

We spend the days as only those in Spencerville can. Chasing the manufactured breezes atop Siberian Summit, diving into the narrative pools of Spotted Red Beagle Beach, each adventure another chapter in our storied lives. The humans watch, transfixed by our antics, their laughter our currency in this strange new world.

By mid-afternoon, I find myself engaged in a savage tug-of-war with the latest contraption from Fetch! Toys and Treats. It’s a mammoth sea creature of sorts with more squeakers than limbs. The sight of me, locked in intense battle with it, sends my human onlookers into fits of amusement. This is my craft, my unintended comedy, where I play the jesters’ role unbeknownst to my own intent.

As evening descends like a stage curtain, I can’t help but reflect on this bizarre existence. The town pulses with pet life, each carrying memories of human love and the patient wait for a reunion. Yet, the beat goes on, each of us playing our part, Miley the Greyhound, the regal and reluctant entertainer in this wild, waggish West Pet World.

But as the Spencerville breeze plays through my tan and white fur and the laughter of my pals fills the air, I acquiesce. This is no tragedy, no comedown from a hallowed chase—this is the life constructed for us, where every day is a high-steaks game, and I’m cashing in my chips with a wagging tail.

The End.