Hey Mom,

Just wrapping up another day reigning as Spencerville’s charm queen amidst the beach and desert critter power struggles. Refusing to play their ruff games and sticking to my sunspot throne with my plush pig squire. Life’s a fetch even without picking sides, right? 🐾

Lording in fluff and wit,
La Bella

Listen to the story here

Another glorious morning dawned over Spencerville, where the sun painted every blade of grass with a lavish stroke of gold. If I sound particularly lyrical, it’s only because such mornings tend to inspire poetry even in the most pedestrian of souls—and believe me, my soul cavorts well above the pedestrian. I am, after all, La Bella, the reigning mascot and unacknowledged queen of this domain.

They will tell you Spencerville is a utopia where pets live a human-like existence, a place of eternal beaches and deserts, a culinary Olympus with such establishments as Furrific Fried Chicken and, my personal favorite indulgence, The Barkery. But even paradise knows politics, and the pet kingdom is no exception. Thrones may not be our choice of seating—I, for one, prefer a nice sun-warmed spot of grass—but they are no less fought over.

It was on this particular morning that I found myself unwittingly at the center of such contention. By my side, as ever, was my steadfast squire, a slightly disheveled plush pig inseparable from my adventures. As I paraded from porch to porch, deliberate in my pace and benevolent in my gaze, a whisper of unrest brewed beneath the surface.

Max, a creature not altogether unworthy of companionship, approached me with a goofiness that betrayed the gravity of his news. “La Bella,” he barked, a tremor in his golden voice, “the beach factions grow restless. Red Beagle and Brindle Boxer vie for supremacy. And rumor has it, the desert dwellers seek an alliance.”

Ah, the eternal struggle for sand and shore. I flicked my tail, unamused. “And what do they seek from me? It’s clear as daylight that my apathy toward their squabbles could fill the Tan Dalmatian Desert itself.”

“They seek the sway of your charm, the endorsement of La Bella,” responded Max, his eyes wide with the seriousness of a court jester attempting prophecy.

I let out a soft huff that ruffled my black and white fur, elegantly tussled as always. “If only charm were currency, we’d all be rich as Kibble Cuisine’s owner.” My sarcasm was as sharp as the serrated edge of a puppy’s milk tooth, and just as likely to draw blood.

Max and I wandered through the bustling streets of Spencerville, past The Tail Wagger’s Tailor—where elegance met extravagance at a crossroad of canine vanity and past Happy Hounds Dog Walking, where joy was leashed in the name of structure.

It was at the edge of the Red Beagle Beach, where the waves kissed the shore with foamy affection, that I announced, “I will not play their game, no matter their longing for a leg-up in this society. I am above such… pettiness.”

“But La Bella,” Max whined, “your nonchalance could spell chaos for us all.”

“Let them have their chaos,” I retorted. “It’s as common as fleas and twice as irksome. Fret not, Max. This is but another storm.” I said that with a confidence I did not feel; storms, metaphorical or otherwise, were not my theater.

And so, they wrangled and rumbled, the beaches and deserts of our little world, each side courting me in turns with treats and flattery, yet none were as sweet as peanut butter nor as genuine as a belly rub. It was a debacle of royal proportions, but I would not be coerced into choosing a camp.

After all, every dog has its day, but I—La Bella, the Boston Terrier in the shimmering suit of charm—have every day. They would learn, in time, that a throne is of little comfort when one has the whole of Spencerville at one’s paws. And until they came to their senses, I would graciously reign, a knight without a sword, in my own backyard oasis, with my beloved plush pig by my side, the peanut butter of tranquility amid the clattering armor of their ambitions.

The End.