Hey fam! 🐾 In this wild tale, I, Merlin the Mighty Pug, turned from backyard lounger to island castaway. Teamed up with a fast-moving greyhound, outwitted a cat cabal, and built a civilization fit for the fluffiest of conquerors! Crafting a raft now, Spencerville Sailor style. Adventures await, but there’s no place like home. 🌴 🐕 ⛵️

Cheers,
Merlin the Marooned

Listen to the story here

As the saying goes in Spencerville, every dog has his day, but let me tell ya, this was not mine. Hi there, I’m Merlin, your friendly neighborhood pug, and currently, your tour guide through the most unexpected of escapades—a castaway diary, if you will. I remember it started on a sunny Tuesday; I was basking in the backyard when suddenly, there was this whirlwind, a kind of hullabaloo that would’ve made any seasoned Chihuahua in North Chihuahua Castle lose a tiara or two.

Next thing I know, I’m not in Spencerville anymore. The place is lush and green, but whoever designed this island didn’t get the memo on pug accessibility. The last thing on my doggie bucket list was survival reality TV, minus a camera crew and the comfort of a Pupperoni Pizza joint within a walking distance.

My first day was, frankly, unpleasant. Solitude? Not my cup of kibble. Give me a break, nature. Day two, I met Lola, a greyhound with legs so long I got winded just looking at her. She was from Greyhound Grove, and let me say, she lacked any interest in sniffing out a mutual survival strategy—or so it seemed.

You see, to get by, we had to channel our inner McGyver of the canine world. Our first instinct? Find food. Given my gourmet tastes and Lola’s greyhound-speed grocery runs, we started thinking a Fetching Deli would be real nice right about now. But our menu was pre-decided by island couture—coconuts on Mondays, Tuesdays, and… you get the drift. My paws were not meant for cracking coconuts. I stare at them, they stare right back—pet disdain at its finest.

Lola was the athletic type, which was great for her, but me? I’m built for comfort, not speed. And when we stumbled upon the secret cat cabal of the island, I knew we were in for it. Those felines had the haughty demeanor of a Snooty Snout Boutique salesclerk on a Monday morning. They eyeballed me; I sensed a challenge. They were no vet, but conflict was in the air.

My furry greyhound companion and I devised an intricate plan based both on wits and the art of distraction—a ball, the simple joy of every dog’s life. Did I ever tell you how much I loved those things? It’s fabulous until your survival depends on it—not so bouncy after all. I threw my bouncy ball (a precious commodity I had miraculously found), and those kitties chased after it—all part of the great escape plan.

The days went on, each sunrise and sunset blending into the next. We found the courage and the silliness in our situation, because what else can you do when you’re wearing the same collar every day? We built a semblance of civilization in our own Pet Partner’s Supply Store style; managed to look well and be well at the island’s improvised Woof and Whisker Wellness Center (a.k.a., the lagoon); and got our daily dose from Yappy Yogurt—

Don’t even ask.

Here’s the twist: as the paw turns, you find kinship. Lola lunged, I pounced, and the cats, well, they provided the background music with their conniving meows. It was the oddest troupe, but hey, in the face of adversity, you’ll even take grooming tips from a cat if it means partnering up to find home.

As I narrate this tale of survival and fur balls, remember that your comfy couch is a treasure trove. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to consult with Lola on the building of our raft. Why not aim high, we thought, South Siberian Summit Mountaineers or Spencerville Sailors? We’re coming for them ALL!

The End.