Hey Momandad,

Unfur-lievable day! Detective Vlad on the tail, sniffing out family drama—turned hero, rescued Momo from an impromptu escapade. Tail-waggin’ reunion at sunset, Spencerville stories getting richer by the bark. Kingdom safe, bedtime under stargazing sky. Paws and reflect, just another day in the life 😎🐾

Catch you in the morning light,
Vlad

Listen to the story here

So it goes—I’m Vlad, the Boston Terrier with more character in my paw than most have in their entire brood. Spencerville is where I find myself these days, a jaunty little spot that’s like heaven, just without the harps. A continuous swell of family drama unfurls here, where familial bonds are as tangled as leashes at the Paws-A-Latte during rush hour.

The sun was lounging high in the cloudless sky when my day began with the boundless energy of a pup half my age. It’s an episodic life for me; mornings at the Brown Boxer Beach are invigorating. You could say it’s my morning ritual: the salty sea breeze ruffling my brindle fur and the sand giving way beneath my eager paws. But even with all this space, the beach felt smaller with Momo gone.

It was on such an afternoon when Max let slip a rumor over a bowl of Pupperoni Pizza that Momo had been spotted, somersaulting through the meadow with a pair of Corgi contortionists. But here’s the thing about family: they’re like reflections in a funhouse mirror. You recognize them, sure, but they’re never quite the way you remember. Momo was no contortionist; his idea of a gymnastic feat was rolling over for a belly rub.

Noah sniffed, his fluffy Bichon face more skeptical than a cat at a water park. “Are you chasing shadows again?”

“You think I’m mistaken?” I retorted, bristling slightly because let’s face it, my detective skills are as sharp as my canine teeth. I set off, Max and Noah reluctantly trailing behind.

An investigation commenced. By the time we reached Fawn Cream Maltese Meadow, twilight was upon us like a warm blanket. Zeus, his stature as grand as his namesake, joined our merry band, his bark less formidable than his bite.

We traipsed across the meadow, calling and searching, a family united in the singular purpose of finding one of its own—Momo, the Yorkie-extraordinaire. “This is it,” I howled at the moon, as much in frustration as hope. And wasn’t it quite the scene? A Boston Terrier, two Bichons, and a Yorkie fit for Mount Olympus, combing the fields like we were hunting for treasure.

The search stretched, and my brindle coat merged with the night. The stars gossiped overhead, but they weren’t much for clues. I was considering the tender embrace of my backyard throne when suddenly, there it was—the faintest yap of a Yorkie.

Each step felt like an eternity, every rustle a thrill. Until, emerging from the brush, was Momo, head tilted, looking for all the world like he’d been waiting for us all along. The reunion was a mosaic of licks, yaps, and wagging tails. And for that fragile slice of time, the family was complete, a unit welded together by shared affection and the collective sigh of relief from regaining a stray strand.

That night I lay in my yard, the kingdom I guard, the realm I rule. The sky lay vast and accommodating. Above me stretched the endless parade of bright sentinels, heavens’ dogs who’d run ahead willfully, no leash to hold them back on earth. We are but dots in this cosmic Spencerville—conjuring tales, chasing balls, crafting legends out of the ordinary in the wait for our perfect reunion.

I contemplated such revelries until sleep beckoned me with gentle paws, and I surrendered, dreaming of the day’s episode, an addition to the sprawling narrative of our Spencerville existence. The truth of all families is they are like a never-ending story, each day a fresh page. And so it goes.

The End.