Hey Ma,

Just toppled Boxlandia with my daring jaws in Everdale, achieved legendary status (again), scarfed down a champion feast, and avoided that wet menace—the pool. Life’s good, full of adventure and oatmeal cream pies! Give my love to the petunias before I return for my next grand endeavor.

Your devoted fur rocket,
Gus the Destroyer

Listen to the story here

In the heart of Everdale, a land swathed in velvet green and skies painted in perpetual twilight, there came the thud of paws against the cobblestone. You see, in Spencerville, I’m quite the celebrity—a four-legged, snorting, bundle of contradictions named Gus.

I fancy a good caper and I’ve found myself in one now, a grand, rollicking riff on some old yarn about three little pigs and their architectural whims. Only, in this version, it’s not pigs and makeshift houses; it’s your truly and his conquest over the greatest of cardboard castles.

‘Twas on a day when the sun played peek-a-boo between clouds and I, ever the knight-errant, attacked the fortress known to multitudes as Boxlandia. A mighty stronghold held together by tape and wishful thinking, in a realm ruled by the infamous Beanbone. Thus began the siege, my slobber as my shield, my barks the drumbeat of war.

Beanbone held his ground. Fortifications were savagely defended, but with cunning and jaw strength, not unlike some ancient dragon, I reduced the fortress to rubble—a shambles—a heroic dénouement worthy of the bards.

Post victory, I embarked on a culinary pilgrimage to The Doggy Bagel Deli for a well-deserved feast. The air was rich with the aroma of sesame seeds and smoked chicken. My heart (and stomach) quivered in antici—pation. But lo! Destiny, fickle as ever, placed oatmeal cream pies under my nostrils, their sweet, sweet allure hijacking my senses, much like that enchantress—whatshername from that other fairy tale with spinning wheels and pricked fingers? Never mind.

I have certain distastes: walkies, for instance. Cursed endeavors if ever there were any. Why prance about aimlessly chasing one’s tail when one could be tearing asunder another cardboard citadel?

And let’s not discuss watermelon (bleurgh) or the pool—that watery tart with nary a drop of decency nor regard for an honest bulldog’s contempt for swimming.

My friendships? They’re the stuff of legends—nullable pacts woven from the very fabric of Spencerville. We’ve no need for pomp or titles; there’s an understanding amongst us, like knights of roundish (and variously smelling) tables.

As for my aversion to grown-ups, it’s not ill-nature, no—it’s the discerning taste of one who enjoys the unabashed silliness that only youth can offer.

Now, reclined upon my once grandiose cardboard conquest, I ponder my next great exploit. Will it be chasing leaves that dare defy me by drifting too close? Or perhaps orchestrating a gentle snooze upon Lady Tabitha’s prized petunias?

So gather ’round, young pups and critters of girth. Whether thou art beagle, westie, or pug, take note. For legends are spun not from the gilded deeds of the pristine, but from the messy, slobber-soaked adventures of the real heroes. Where cardboard falls, there you’ll find me: Gus, the bard, the builder, the unfettered spirit of Spencerville.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a date with a cream pie that sings a siren’s call to my hungry heart.

The End.