Hey Mom,

Just a quick update from your furball-in-chief! Today, I wrangled a gang of rogue vacuums, had the usual banter with the squad at the park, and still managed to uphold my “Petfather” status. Who knew our Spencerville escapades would make me a top dog? Missing those two-legged cuddles, though. I’m more than my collar deep in doggy dealings but always your loyal Buddy at heart. Give my belly rubs a raincheck?

Woofs and wags,
Buddy 🐾

Listen to the story here

In the heart of Spencerville, beneath the amber glow of the neon sign that flickered “Fur Tacos” in an infinite loop, power sat on a plump cushioned throne—and that power had a name. Hi, I’m Buddy. I’d say it’s a pleasure, but then we both know that pleasantries are just the appetizers before the main course of truths, half-truths, and obliging lies, don’t we?

Let me take you for a little amble down memory lane, where every lamppost shines brighter than fabled Golden Retriever River, and every squeaky clean dish rings a tale of the Dog-gone Good BBQ. I was the bulldog in charge, the one who took the bones and buried them deep, the one who’s growl echoed like a lullaby within Westie Woods.

My empire, you see, stretched farther than the fetching fields of Labradoodle Lake; my pawprint pressed upon every deal, every juicy marrow-filled bone traded within the cozy confines of The Doggy Depot. In a town where pets run the show, I ran it a tad tighter—after all, someone had to ensure we all had our fun while our hearts waited to chase another car ride with our humans.

The park was the scene of our daily congregation, a buffet of the utopian life we led. There, my friends—the spry terrier, Squirt; the astute feline, Star; and the wise Beagle, Henry—we held court. One might’ve thought of us as a formidable canine syndicate, feared for their strategically placed ‘gifts,’ but really, we reminisced about the chase, the scents of the old world—the essence of peoples’ shoes, the jubilation of doorbells, and the symphony conjured by our humans’ return each day.

At this juncture, allow me to share an anecdote. The Pampered Pooch Salon had a little problem: a gang of rogue vacuums, noisier than a pack of alley cats in the throes of debate. They were trawling the neighborhoods, robbing us of our essence—a silent nap without the threat of existential dread. I took it upon myself to handle this matter, with the finesse of a dog who’d chewed through the leash of life’s struggles. One fiery gaze down Pupperoni Pizza’s alley and the vacuums surrendered to a peace of sorts, retreating to less audacious suction levels.

In Spencerville, I’d become the Petfather, feared, respected, and scrubbed behind the ears with the same allegiance. Nights spent at the Canine Cafe, sipping bowls of beef broth alongside family, pondering the next après-dinner toy to destroy, these were my quiet joys. But under the felt hat of Dogfather authority, lay my true wish—the bone I deeply cherished, a symbol of enduring loyalty to the humans awaiting our reunion.

Sure, I ran an illegitimate empire of well-organized fun under the pretense of chaos, where every Frisbee caught was a covenant of trust. But strip away that collar and I’m just another dog, pawing at the same spot on the couch that still smells of home, dreaming of the savory morsels that fell from the sky (the kitchen counter).

So there you have it, my tale—a story not of nefarious plots but of squirrels chased in jest, of epic battles with garden hoses. Remember me, won’t you? Buddy—the bulldog with the noble bark and the heart that never loses sight of the love that walks on two legs. And if you find yourself in Spencerville, ask for the Petfather. We might just share a plate of Fur Tacos and talk about the good old days, when car rides reigned supreme, and the spirit of loyalty wove us all together—forever a part of the same pack.

The End.