Hey, it’s Macho! Just checking in from the cosmic hodgepodge of Spencerville. I’ve gone from terrier to time-traveler, sniffing out anomalies in a town that’s part medieval, part sci-fi chic. Swapped belly rubs for space rumbles and chicken for… well, let’s call it mystery meat. Now I’m off to Saturn, leaving paw prints on the sands of time. Wish you were here to wag along. 🐾✨ Macho, the Cosmo Canine.

Listen to the story here

And there I was, trotting down something that was unmistakably Main Street in Spencerville, yet not as I remember it. You know how you can get that prickling sensation on the back of your neck when the very fabric of reality seems to hiccup? No? Well, why would you — you’re not a time-traveling Yorkshire Terrier. The streetlamps blazed a futuristic neon blue that would make even the most garish of Las Vegas attractions look modest, and yet the cobblestones beneath my paws whispered of ye olde days from medieval malarkey.

You see, in this latest escapade, I found myself in a bit of a temporal twist, a furry Gallivant, if I may coin a term. Good old Spencerville had morphed into something from another epoch, or perhaps several epochs knotted together like a rookie sailor’s first attempt at a sea shanty. I trotted along, quite expecting to bump into Shakespeare having a pint with an astronaut, not that I would have recognized the bard without a handy placard, mind you.

Ah, my days in Spencerville before the time junta began — they were filled with earthly pleasures like belly rubs and chicken treats, naught more complex than a sturdy game of tug-of-war. Now, it appeared I had stumbled onto a rather peculiar buffet, a veritable smorgasbord of the space-time continuum courtesy of some waggy-tailed boffins.

I scuttled past what now stood as ‘Waggle n’ Wok – The Intergalactic Edition,’ smelling of stir-fried things that I swear were not of this Earth — not even the Earth of the Jurassic, when it was all lizards the size of double-deckers, bellowing like foghorns. As my snout quivered at the scents, my stomach gave a conspiratorial rumble, but I gave it a stern talking-to about the perils of dodgy street food, no matter the century.

Down the lane marched a mechanical contraption offering ‘Guided Tours of the Cosmos,’ bellowing in a voice that could only be described as excruciatingly enthusiastic. It was shaped like a Dalek but painted with a jaunty stripe that suggested less “exterminate” and more “validate your parking.” I considered it for a moment, then concluded that my own four paws and finely tuned sense of curiosity served me better.

Just as I rounded the juxtaposed corner of Shih Tzu Stadium, now decked out with holograms of ancient gladiatorial games, I caught sight of my chums, Benny and Whiskers. Benny appeared to be wearing a Roman centurion helmet, looking quite the part if you ignored the befuddled droop in his ears. Whiskers, clad in a spacesuit that did nothing for her dainty feline frame, regarded him with the usual mix of disdain and apathy. One would think time travel would awe even the most insouciant of cats, but not our Whiskers.

“Ah, Macho,” Benny barked as I approached, his helmet wobbling with earnestness. “We were just discussing whether to take tea with Dickens or go chasing comet tails past Saturn’s rings. What do you think?”

Well, normally I’m a chap for simpler times, but the prospect of hurtling through space clutching onto a comet by the seat of my furry pants did strike a certain chord. Dickens, admirable chap though he undoubtedly was, likely had little on offer for a ravenous terrier, and frankly, his haunts seemed a tad draughty. Space, however, promised unfathomable grandeur and, one would hope, a notable absence of marmalade — what with citrus being my dietary nemesis.

“Off to Saturn!” I exclaimed, tail aloft like a standard. We scampered aboard a vessel that seemed made of dreams and moonbeams and maybe a few discarded crisp packets. And away we zoomed, past eras and epochs, leaving behind us a trail of stardust and paws well-traveled.

Each moment became a memory, every leap a new page — and somewhere in this boundless adventure, I knew that Ms. Agatha would be proud. After all, it’s not every day a modest dog from Spencerville becomes a cosmopolitan canine, frolicking across time and space, chasing after the romp of a lifetime.

The End.