Yo, guess who’s The Last of the Doghicans out here, steering the U.S.S. Tailwagger through the cosmos with the grace of a hound unleashed? It’s your boy, Caddie, living the dream minus the belly rubs, facing down the vacuum menace, and chasing that eternal frisbee in the sky. #PawsAndStars – Caddie Boy 🚀🐾✨🐶

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Stardate: Who cares? In Spencerville, time is a chew toy that no one’s quite interested in fetching.

“Captain’s log: The U.S.S. Tailwagger has embarked on a crucial mission through the Milky Waybone, and I, Caddie Boy, am at the helm, steering through starfields with more determination than when I chased that laser pointer into oblivion last Tuesday.”

Let’s keep it real for a hot second. When Boomer first told me about the starship hidden behind Greyhound Grove, I thought he’d sniffed too many fire hydrants—if you catch my drift. But here we are, a motley crew of tail-waggers and purr-patrols, all aboard a starship that makes The Bark Shak look like a kibble dispenser from the discount aisle.

Tilly, the feline first officer with more grace than a ballet of butterflies, is navigating the cosmos with her paws gliding over the console. Who knew cat reflexes worked on spaceship tech? And Boomer, Chief Howling Officer, is on the bridge, warming up his vocal cords. The dog’s got a howl that bends space-time—or at least that’s what I like to tell him.

As for me, I’m sitting in the captain’s chair like I used to curl up in Mrs. Ella’s lap, only with fewer belly rubs and more responsibility. Never thought I’d say it, but I sort of miss the taste of raw celery—anything for a whiff of Earth.

Speaking of Earth, when I look out at the glimmering star dots, it’s like they’re winking at me, whispering, “We’ve seen where you’ve buried your bones, Caddie Boy.” And I wink back, because, hey, class.

Just yesterday, we zipped past the Orion Collar, where stars shimmer like the tag on my old collar jingling merrily during joyful jaunts through the suburbs. I swear, the nebulae here smell faintly of chicken—Mrs. Ella’s recipe, no doubt.

Our mission? To bravely stick our snouts where no pet has sniffed before. We’re not just chasing comets; we’re searching for the ultimate throwing star. Imagine a frisbee that never, ever lands, always teasing you to jump higher. That’s the dream, my furry friends.

Distracted? Who, me? Never. Okay, maybe that Space Squirrel on the viewer has me itching to bark, but priorities, right?

There’s trouble brewing, though. We’ve encountered a rogue vacuum cleaner on the starboard side, and it’s sucking up cosmic dust bunnies like there’s no tomorrow. Now, I’ve faced those roaring beasts before, but this one is monstrous, a true nemesis.

Tilly’s ear-twitching suggests a plan. We’ll ambush that intergalactic dust devil by broadcasting Boomer’s howl over our comms. It’ll be so flabbergasted by the sound that it’ll lose suction. Genius!

As Boomer lets out a howl that would make the moon swoon, Tilly and I hit the thrusters. We spiral into a corkscrew maneuver I learned from chasing my tail, and let me tell you, it would make Mrs. Ella dizzy with pride.

Presto, the vacuum goes as silent as a cat on the prowl. We’re safe—to nose-boop another day.

So here I sit, wagging my tail to the beat of the stars, navigating through the great unknown, with Boomer and Tilly by my side. We’re more than a crew; we’re a band of fluffy renegades leaving our paw prints across the galaxy.

The legend of Spencerville continues out here in the cosmos—a place where adventures puff up like popcorn, and the possibility of reunion glitters more brightly than the Dog Star itself.

The End.

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