Hey Ma,

It’s me, Beefy, your snuggle-worthy brindle hero. Saving Spencerville one chew toy at a time in the wild West Pet World. Between snoozing on our creaky porch and standing heroically (but dry) by Labradoodle Lake, I’ve kept my bulldog dignity intact. Can’t wait for our car ride adventures again—even if I do have to share the backseat with your grocery bags. Miss you more than I miss a good scratch behind the ears.

See you soon with drooly kisses,
Beefy

Listen to the story here

Well, hello again, familiar yet unseen compatriot—it’s me, Beefy, the bulldog with the kind of face only a mother could love and a brindle coat that’s more handsome than a speckled sunset. Let’s embark on a jaunt into my rather enchanting existence here in Spencerville, shall we?

My days begin in typically grand fashion, basking in the enveloping warmth of the sun on my own front porch, the planks creaking like old storytellers beneath my rather substantial heft. There, as the gentle hum of Spencerville stirs to life, I rebuff the snores that try to claim me, for there are adventures to which one must attend; even if one’s favorite activity happens to be an artful and meticulous slumber.

Now, the intriguing microcosm that is Spencerville happens to exist in a world parallel to the dated romanticism of West Pet World—a place where pets play in period-attired bliss for the amusements of those beings who walk on less paws. Can you picture it, my friend? A bulldog in a Stetson, perhaps? Humorous, if not totally within the bounds of good taste, I assure you.

I’ve made a little sojourn into this synthetic creation today, as it seems to glitter with promise from the comforts of the artificial sun and sanded down Saloon corners. Venturing beyond Collie Canyon, I tousle with slobber-covered chew toys that have seen better days, my jowls locked in fervent battle with the tough fibers. These toys are my steadfast companions, aside from my human, who affectionately addresses me with that moniker “mommy.”

The Western Labradoodle Lake glitters invitingly, but like a wise general studies his battles, I exercise discretion. Those waters have seen more dog paddles than I have years, and my disdain for any form of aqueous endeavor ensures I remain a dignified observer from the shore. Apropos, don’t you think, for one as contemplatively mirthful as myself?

Speaking of mirth, have I mentioned my less than dulcet views on the pandemonium of dog parks? The chaos, the inexplicable frenzy—it’s all too much ado about fetching balls. Never could stomach it. I prefer the ampleness of Red Beagle Beach, where the sands are as therapeutic as a choice chew and the horizons stretch as wide as my own penchant for contemplation.

Now, amongst the clamor of Bark Burgers and the aromatic teases from The Woofy Bakery, I saunter with an air of affectionate protectiveness for this artificial Oddity of West Pet World. Though I may be mechanically called to whimsy here, there’s a part of me—a substantial part, might I add—that cherishes the eventually promised reunion with my family.

Ah, yes, the locomotion of car rides, the brisk wind blustering through my flappy ears—these remain the halcyon moments of canine existence. Though life in Spencerville, brimming as it may be with artificial suns and synthetic events, offers entertainment of a persistently peculiar kind, it’s those tender morsels of memory, those lustrous slants of sun on my porch, and the very real loyalty to an ever-present “mommy” that feed one’s soul.

To you, my unseen accomplice in this journey of yarns, remember that behind every robust bulldog lurks a tale of love, loyalty, and the singular joy of a well-gnawed chew toy. And so, with the setting of Spencerville’s faultless sun, I leave you, adrift in the delicious ambiguity of another day spent in this curiously perfect world waiting for a reunion that is as inevitable as my next nap.

The End.