Hey there 😊,

Annie here, reporting from the front lines of The Fetching Firm. It’s just another day juggling chew toys and spreadsheets, dreaming of salmon fillets and dodging olives like a pro. Staying loyal while secretly longing for sun-dappled fields. Just a tail-wag away from all you two-legged wonders until my paws carry me back to cloud-crowned adventures. Keep an ear out for my stories on the breeze.

Wags and whimsy,
Annie 🐾

Listen to the story here

There I was, Annie, sitting in the midst of what Spencerville’s bright minds decided to call “The Fetching Firm.” It’s an office job unlike any other, if what you’re looking for in a job is the ambience of a circus with a hint of nine-to-five drudgery. In this canine-centric cubicle jungle, the water cooler buzzed not with the latest office gossip, but with the drip-drop serenade for the thirsty strategist plotting their next bathroom break timing.

So there it was, another day under the flickering fluorescents, tap-tapping away at a keyboard that seemed sizeable even for a Saint Bernard’s paws. With a glance, I typewrite my memoirs, while across the room, Benny—the robust Labrador from accounting—paws meticulously at his calculator, totaling up treat expenses with a furrowed brow.

Lulu, a sprightly beagle mix from marketing, frequently prances by my desk to discuss the optics of chew toys in the modern-day park setting. She’s keen, and by keen, I mean she thinks a squeaky toy is the answer to world peace.

Amongst my memories, the windswept afternoons chasing liberty in Spencerville’s fields felt like a Shakespearean play now confined to the archives of this dog-eared heart. That squeaky chicken, that symbol of all things delightfully mundane, was my mysterious Rosebud; inscrutable to others, yet a tome of tales to me.

Lunch hour had the allure of an oasis. I would find myself serenely seated at The Canine Cafe, savoring the savory bliss that is grilled salmon fillets. Benny, ever the conversationalist, tried to strike up debates on the nutritional value of bone marrow, while Lulu, disappointed with her vegetarian platter, would eye my meal with thinly veiled envy.

Ah, the office life. Meetings were like watching human performance art where the plot was uncomplicated, but the subtext, oh, the subtext was like a Dostoevsky novel. Benny would propose organized file systems with the nuance of a fencing master, and Lulu would counter with the resolve of a diplomat, outlining projected synergy between various departments like Kibble Kounts! and Fetching Figures.

You know the mischief in me sparkles brightly when the compulsion to whisper to Lulu about the futility of synergistic projections overcomes. She rolls her eyes, knowing that my allegiance lies more with wind-tussled frolics than bar graphs and pivot tables. But loyalty, ah, it tugs me back from the edge of mutiny, the way Jamie would call me back from adventures that edged too close to the unknown.

Olives, those embodiments of betrayal, reminded me much of the office photocopier. It promised much, delivered little, and always left a bitter taste. The scent of failure hovered around its ominous presence as much as the scent of olives would send me scuttling away with a face that barely hid my contempt.

Yet there was solace, in my siblings, Bruno, Lily, and Max, working in various corners of Spencerville’s employment forests. We’d gather for water-cooler chats, reminisce our days in the sun-dappled fields, and howl over old jokes.

In moments of quiet musing, as the typewriter clacks died down and the glow of the screens buzzed softly, I’d harbor a thought. A thought as fleeting as it was comforting: Spencerville, oh what a place to be an office dog, to wade through the mundane, waiting on that destined reunion.

So until Jamie crosses that rainbow bridge and into my still adventuresome embrace, here in Spencerville, I work, I wag, and I wonder.

The End.

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