Hey Mom,

Just saved Spencerville from the clutches of Hector Howl-a-lot in an epic battle at Fur Tacos. I’m still the top dog with tales that wag and fur that shines. Legends? I’m making ’em. Vacuums? Still hate ’em. Now off to feast and snooze by the hearth. Stay pawsome!

Woofs and wags,
Nuggy 🐾

Listen to the story here

So there I was, gallivanting across the wistful stretch of Western Labradoodle Lake, my golden locks shimmering against the backdrop of a setting sun that looked suspiciously like a tossed Frisbee, if you squint it just right. The kind of grandeur that would make any other dog stop and wag their tail in pure admiration, but I – Nugget, mind you – only paused for a moment, for there was an adventure afoot.

Now, when one speaks of Spencerville, one must understand that it’s not your usual dog park. Oh no, it’s the wild yonder of paws and possibilities, where the rules of frisbees and ‘stay’ take on a life of their own. But on this particular day, my purpose was as clear as the kibble at the bottom of an empty bowl.

You see, there’s this little spot down by Spotted Red Beagle Beach where the buzz of the town ends and tales of old begin – quite frankly, it’s the perfect stage for a Golden Shih Tzu with a penchant for theatrics. Today, my stage was set for what I’d call my Magnum Opus – a showdown with the infamous outlaw Hector Howl-a-lot over at Fur Tacos.

As I sauntered into the joint, the plinky-plonk of the saloon piano scratched at my ears. The mood was tense, the ambience a concoction of doggy delight and anticipation. “Evening, Nugget,” drawled the bartender, a silver-whiskered Schnauzer with a penchant for chew sticks.

I gave him a nod; “Keep the jerky sticks coming, Jaspers. This might get ruff.”

You know, fury had a name in these parts, and it wasn’t just my distinguished black mask. I took my usual spot at the corner booth, splayed out with all the grace of a tumbleweed on a windy day, and waited.

Hector was a vacuum-loving, banana-munching oddity in an otherwise sane universe. *Some say* his tail wagged so fast, it could create a dust storm that rivaled Retriever River during a drought. The thought of him irked me more than the idea of a leisurely float down that sandy bed without paddle or bone.

In he strolled, larger than the lore written about him, with a smirk that could send the bravest salukis scurrying. Our eyes met in a squabble of stares, neither willing to look away. “Nugget,” he growled, his voice a sandy scrape, “Think you can just roll over and play dead as the prim pup of Spencerville? Things hereabouts are changing.”

“Change,” I quipped, “is only good when it leads to more belly rubs and fewer baths.” I rose, and a hush fell over the bustling crowd, each chew toy and steak bone forgotten.

Our showdown was a hustle of fur and bared teeth, darting paws clapping the wooden planks with the rhythm of a chase. You could’ve heard a kibble drop in the ensuing silence, punctuated by our snarls and the occasional, embarrassingly involuntary, high-pitched yip.

We tussled and tangoed until Hector was sprawled out, panting as if he’d chased a mail van for three blocks straight. I stood victorious, my golden fluff slightly ruffled but my dignity as intact as a well-gnawed bone.

“You might be the top hound now, Nugget,” Hector conceded, “but beware—the winds of Spencerville are ever changing.”

I tossed my head, fur flowing in a breeze only felt by the truly fabulous, and retorted, “Change can wait; right now, it’s dinner and a snooze by the hearth. Now, let’s get along, little doggie.”

As I exited Fur Tacos, I knew my legend would grow; after all, Spencerville always had a soft spot for a dog with a tale, and boy, did I have waggers to tell. Now, if only someone could do something about the dreadful vacuum cleaner howling at moon.

The End.