Hey Dad,

In short, I’ve embraced my inner detective in Spencerville, unwraveling a Frisbee heist that threatened our canine harmony. Between foamy coffees and boutique brawls, I’ve restored order and padded my legend. Still sniffing out the mastermind though. Spencerville’s tales keep wagging, and so do I.

Catch you later,
Russell

Listen to the story here

It’s another sumptuous morning in Spencerville, where the clouds part like the velvet curtains of an upscale theatre, just to give one more encore performance for the sun. I’m Russell, by the way. You know me—the stocky chap with a face like an old-timey boxer and a heart that could probably use a bit of cardio.

I was lying there, on the seamlessly endless lush flows of Southern Golden Retriever River—only, without the water bit because, between us, the aquatic? Not my pint of ale. I was brewing in the sun, thoughts wandering wilder than Fenway after he’s seen a squirrel. Speaking of Fenway, he was likely somewhere around the Spotted Red Beagle Beach, performing our daily rituals of conquests and narratives, keeping an eye out for shifty types. Yes, Spencerville could sometimes feel like a paradise dipped in gold and sprinkled with treats, but even Utopias have their shadows.

And shadows we had today, creeping and crawling beneath the magnolia-scented breeze. Shadows that whispered and tugged at the edges of my tranquil park paradise, right past the Shih Tzu Stadium. I had packed the angst and suspicions away when I tromped through those pearly doggy doors to this realm, but something, something like a forgotten growl in the pit of my belly, told me that all was not as it should be.

Illumination struck as I was savoring the robust flavors at the Bone Appetit. Cheesesteaks and corned beef they serve there—you ought to try it; it’s a culinary ballet. Midsip of an exceptionally frothy Paws-A-Latte, I noticed it. There’s a rhythm to life here in Spencerville that even the outsiders quickly learn—laps run, sticks fetched, Frisbees caught. A venerable routine. A dance. And in this flawless picture, a single Frisbee out of sync could bring the whole portrait crashing down.

It was then, with a creamy mustache lining my jowls, that these keen eyes caught glimpse of a misstep. So small, one might think it just a quirk of the day. A certain Frisbee, a certain exhilarating toss from yours truly, just did not return. Things like this don’t simply happen here; it’s not the Spencerville way.

I should have let it be, perhaps. But who am I, if not an eternally enthusiastic participant of the cosmic tug-of-war? If there’s mischief afoot, I fancied myself quite the detective with a flair for the dramatic reveal. Well, in my imagination, at least.

The search began under the indifferent watch of Wags n’ Wok’s neon sign that flickered with oriental promises. In and out of The Pooch Playhouse, my nose ground against a trail colder than a cat’s shoulder. It led me, tail by tail, to the Snooty Snout Boutique, the high-toned hub for any discerning canine’s fashion emergencies.

There, between sequined collars and diamond-studded leashes, I espied it. My Frisbee under the care of a snooty poodle whose gaze carried more frost than the air conditioning warranted. The standoff was palpable, every hair on my neck an acrobat awaiting the signal to somersault in alarm.

The Spencerville mystery was afoot, and beneath the plump heartiness of this chap lies the tenacity of a bulldog who would not—no, could not—let this slide. This wasn’t just about my Frisbee. This was about order, peace, the Spencerville way.

So I sidled up to that polished counter, muscles rippling beneath my brindle coat, an epitome of calm before the inevitable storm. And with the delicate negotiation skills of a bulldog—which is to say, none—I reclaimed my property. Alright, I may have knocked over a display or two in the process. Aided by the plucky corgi at the register and an unwitting stammer of an apology, but reclaim it I did.

I took to the streets of Spencerville with my Frisbee, a measure of normalcy restored, my legend no doubt bloated a touch more than usual. But there was still a question—a grilling, irksome question—gnawing at my insides.

Who thought they could mess with the bulldog? And what game were they playing at in my Spencerville? Was I wrong to assume that this was all simply fun and games? That Frisbee… It was surely the clue that required my bulldogged attention.

Because in Spencerville, the story never truly ends. It pants onward to the rhythm of beating hearts, awaiting the day when the bonds of kinship usher in the grand reunion. And until then, my dear friend, it’s Frisbees, fields, and the intrigue-laden frolicking for me.

The End.