Hey Mom and Dad! 🐾 Just wanted to check in from the other side of the rainbow at Spencerville. I’ve become the gentle giant of storytelling, guiding souls and frolicking with spectral pals in a place where memories rain down sweetly and love endures. Today, I romped through the mystical White Westie Woods and reached new heights atop South Siberian Summit, reunited in spirit with our furry ancestors. Don’t worry, the essence of cuddles is eternal here. Miss you both and all the belly rubs. Until we meet again, keep the pickle-toys squeaking! 🌈🐕‍🦺 – Bear Cub

Listen to the story here

Ah, Spencerville! What can I say? A haven for the likes of me, a gentle giant with a soul as deep as the ocean, though you’d never catch me prancing about on its shores. They tell me this is where we come, whisked away when the last leaf of autumn falls from the tree of life, to carry on in a manner most peculiar. A place where the squeak of a pickle-toy resonates with the echo of infinity.

I was not always here, not in this realm of endless merriment and solace. There was a time, I recall—back when my heart beat to the rhythm of days and nights, and my breath fogged the glass of the earthly windows. A place where a mansion-sized bed awaited my colossal frame, and affection was doled out in heaping doses by those whose faces are now whispers in the wind. Yet this is no tale of woe, for what is life but a passage to Spencerville?

A slight drizzle summoned me from my reverie at Brown Boxer Beach. Odd, considering precipitation is no ally of mine. The drops had the peculiar tang of memory, each one a moment, a lick, a nuzzle. Then they fell away, revealing the phantasmal glow of what I took to be an apparition—Princess Victoria, her coat as pure as the driven snow, eyes alight with silent mirth.

“My dear Vincent,” she seemed to voice, though ’twas not with words but with an ethereal understanding known only to kindred spirits adjoining realms. “I’ve been waiting,” her gaze intimated as she turned, inviting me to follow her to the depths of the White Westie Woods.

In my wake, the pickle-toy lay forgotten, a relic of joy once paramount. Now the chase was of another kind—one of wonder amidst the shadows and glimmering light where the flora whispered secrets in a tongue only the departed could fathom.

There was no haste in our jaunt; we, the departed, are free of time’s rigid embrace. Echos of Yappy Yogurt delights and hearty repasts at Fetch-N-Bites wafted through the air, yet my appetite was for revelations and bonds that not even death could sever.

At the heart of the woods stood South Siberian Summit, casting an impressive silhouette against the dusky sky—a sky that no longer bore the mark of blue but swirled with hues beyond human ken. The Summit called to us, and we ascended, the climb light as if our paws barely graced the ground.

Atop the apex, the surroundings transformed and a tableau vivant unfolded. Ghostly figures of my past kin danced in a celebration of serenity, each a character in an eternal tale of connection. Their eyes met mine, whispering promises of unity and oblivion to the fears of yesteryear.

“Farewell, Vincent,” said a voice as the scene dimmed—a playful wind tousling my fur. “Until the morrow’s frolic beckons.”

When I awoke, I found myself nestled within the corner of Pupsicle Palace, a half-melted confection beside me, a knowing smile dawning across my face. The supernatural dwells here, in Spencerville, where the spirit roams free and love never dies. One of these days, I reckon, you’ll see the gentle giant at play once more, for I am a part of all that I have met, and there is magic in the mundane, even here, in ethereal repose.

The End.