Hey Mom and Dad,

Just wrapped up another day in Spencerville – saved the town from ghostly squirrels and recovered my cherished pickle pic using some classic Vincent cunning! It’s a tail-wagging tale of marrow bones and spectral showdowns, keeping our streets safe (and a bit supernatural). Can’t wait to tell you all about it. Give Victoria a belly rub for me!

Hugs and howls,
Bear Cub 🐾

Listen to the story here

Ah, my dear friend, as I sit to regale you with my latest caper, you must understand that things here in Spencerville are as brilliantly topsy-turvy as a dog’s breakfast. So, let’s lean in and muse upon the peculiar day that commenced with me, Vincent, that most scholarly Newfoundland, awakening beneath the sprawling boughs of the Eastern White Westie Woods.

It was a morning that smelled of adventure, with a waft of something Swiss – Gruyère, perhaps, or was it the Emmental of excitement? I’d always had a nose for intrigue, and today it twitched more than my tail did upon the anticipation of the daily dental bone.

Let me acquaint you with the fact that Spencerville, despite its groomed gardens and fetching fire hydrants, wasn’t without its whispers of the weird. And I? Being the genial giant I was, had embarked upon the supernatural, the mystical, with a demeanor as nonchalant as a cat in a sunspot.

The day’s agenda, unbeknownst to my brave and belly-flopped self, would have me entangled with the infamous ghostly squirrels of Red Beagle Beach. These spectral rodents were as nefarious as they were nutty, perpetually plotting to pilfer from the Bow Wow Bistro’s famed garbage bins. A crime most foul, indeed!

I meandered towards Pup-Tastic Pizza for a sniff and a ponder. The scent of fish-topped delights flirted with my allergies, but I was a dog of self-restraint – or at least, that’s what I liked to believe. And while contemplating whether a crust could, in fact, be a vessel for a more transcendental pizza experience, I was jolted from my reverie by a clatter sprung from Best in Show Photography.

Ah-ha! The chase was afoot! With a gait that could rival a drifting glacier, I ambled toward the commotion, my heart valiantly attempting the tempo of a Beagle’s bark.

As it transpired, a shimmery squirrel had scurried inside, pursued by an eager scuffle of pups snapping and leaping like popcorn at a campfire. The squirrel, adorned with an otherworldly shimmer, held in its spectral paw a photograph. Not just any photograph, mind you, but the coveted portrait of yours truly with my cherished pickle toy.

The picaresque pursuit would take us from the sullied linoleum of kitchen chaos (past flour sack was my avant-garde signature, after all) right to the illustrious, haunted corners of Northern Choco Chihuahua Castle. The air crackled with a static not unlike the tickling of a belly fur.

Here, I invoked cleverness over brawn. I, Vincent the gallant, would outwit these translucent terrors by way of their mortal coil: an undeniable obsession with burials of bones, both tangible and theoretical. And so, I offered a truce – the promise of Spencerville’s mightiest marrow, buried beneath the sands of Red Beagle Beach, in exchange for my precious captured moment in time.

They agreed with a chitter of ghoulish glee, unaware of the Newtonian logic I had employed. For ghosts, you see, are notoriously bad at digging.

As the sun dipped low, the photograph was returned, and I found myself once again sprawled on the cool grass, contemplating the perplexities of a universe that, quite frankly, had long given up the concept of an instruction manual.

And there, under the sycamores with whispers of stories yet untold, I waited. For amongst these spectral hijinks and houndish heroics, I knew that one day, my dearest Princess Victoria and I would paint the town – or at least the kitchen – in every color of our shared frolics and joys.

Until then, my friend, I am but your humble, and perhaps, supernatural storyteller – Vincent, the Newfoundland, at your service.

The End.