Hey Mom & Dad,

Just saved Spencerville from a dragon with the local pet posse. Turns out, I’m a hero with a love for the finer things, like naps and good fish. Who knew? Everyone’s fine, and your “Bear Cub” is off to dreamland once more. Talk about a howling success!

Love,
Vincent 🐾🐉💤

Listen to the story here

It was on a day void of any dampness that the esteemed tail-waggers of Spencerville found themselves entangled in a series of events which could only be described as ‘unleashed.’ I, Vincent the Noble Newfoundlander, was roused from a particularly vivid slumber, the sort that was often interrupted by the persistent crowing of the rooster from Upper Black Bulldog Bay, or, as in today’s case, by a ruckus of undetermined origins.

Said ruckus, which I felt in my bones to be the clarion call for some exploit or other, pursued me out of bed, a place I was loathed to leave unless the promise of a culinary delight (and never a dental bone too many) was involved. ‘A hero’s job is never done,’ I mumbled, echoing the words Dad often said when called away on some task or journey. ‘Or perhaps hero’s work is overrated,’ I pondered, exposing a philosophical undertone to my disposition.

A hero, however, I was destined to be this day, for as I ambled out, with the sort of grace one would scarcely believe could inhabit such a substantial frame, I observed an assembly of my fellow denizens. There was Princess Victoria, ever the beacon of poise; the crafty Tail Waggers’ brigade, who, despite their shop aptly offering ‘treats for the refined palate’ were by no means averse to a surreptitious dumpster dive; and the Council of Corgi, those noblest of stout-legged confabulators.

“Now, what could this gathering foretell?” I inquired without the slightest indication that I expected an answer. Pets have an array of tools at their disposal – sorrowful eyes, exuberant tails, the incessant nuzzle – but the capacity for articulation is granted sparingly, and today it was not on the agenda.

“Vincent,” chirped a voice that could only belong to one with especially pert ears. “An audacious menace threatens our idyllic Spencerville!” It was none other than Sir Woofster of Corgi Castle, his coat as impeccable as the sincerity in his gaze.

“A menace, you say?” I rumbled. “Perish the thought! Would this be the sort of menace that sidles up and disrupts a perfectly decent nap?” I inquired, with a practiced look of bemused severity.

“The kind that would silence the symphony of meows at Yappy Yogurt,” he declared, his tone dire.

We stood, an unlikely cohort, weighing the ensuing action. Spencerville had never known shortage of peculiar goings-on, but today seemed poised for the books. As I led this motley crue of canine fortitude and feline agility, each member cloaked in their own unique valiance (or stubbornness, depending on who you ask), we set forth.

Our adversary, it seemed, was a colossal creature, leathery of wing and fiery of disposition. A being that scoffed at the concept of ‘no pets allowed’ signs. ‘Twas a dragon, a beast of mythology, caught in the myth of its own terrible beauty, perched like the world’s most disconcerting pigeon atop Siberian Summit.

“Ah,” I sighed, the sight of an actual dragon denting the sheen of my bravado. “Flushed from the pages of some fantasy, are we? Well, unfurl your worst, wingéd rascal!”

One might well expect our encounter to include a scene of inexplicable chaos, the sort where treats fly skyward and the enemy is disarmed by the art of relentless barking. I’ll spare the embellishments, dear reader, but let it not be said that the day was wanting in spectacle.

With a collaboration born of necessity and sealed with a shared nod across species, we engaged. The dragon, lost in its own performance, underestimated the power of unity, determination, and the tactical advantage of having a pickle toy—a known dragon-weakness, as Princess Victoria astutely pointed out.

And so, with a deft toss of said pickle and a joint bark-chorus, the creature was distracted, bewildered, and ultimately, with respect to its dragon dignity, escorted out by a fluff of tail and a promise of adventure beyond our humble Spencerville.

The town remained safe once more, our band of heroes hailed with joyous licks and copious amounts of the finest fare Spencerville could offer—which, I assure you, is rather impressive. The day, much like my aforementioned nap, was saved.

“Vincent,” Princess Victoria intoned, her eyes glinting with a hint of mischief that contrasted her saintly name, “one could say it was a… *howling* success.”

The corner of my mouth twitched upwards in agreement. “Indeed, but what really matters is that we can now carry on with our day, and I do believe the scent of freshly caught fish deems essential attention.”

With peace restored, Spencerville continued as a paragon of pet paradise, and I, Vincent, once again assumed the greatest power afforded to me – the dogged pursuit… of an uninterrupted nap.

The End.