Hey Dad,

It’s Bentley. I’ve been a heavy-hearted but hopeful hero tonight, wandering through Spencerville and making spirits brighter without even knowing it. My strolls led to a guardian angel showing me the warmth I’ve spread—turns out I’m a bit of a legend here. And while I’ve missed you something fierce, I’ve realized keeping the home fires burning includes my own inner spark. Don’t worry, your Bubba’s got enough light for both of us till you’re back. Merry Christmas, see you soon.

Woofs and wags,
Bentley 🐾🎄

Listen to the story here

The world, they say, is spun from the yarns of passing tales, a place stitched together with the essence of all things that wag and woof. And here I find myself, Bentley—adorable by general consensus, burly of build, splotch of white on my chest like some misplaced tip of the frost—I reckon, I’m as much a part of this tapestry as any. It’s Christmas Eve in Spencerville, and the air is tinged with a scent of expectancy, but there’s a heaviness to my paws that’s not just from the Jolly Ball sessions.

I’ve overheard folks say I’ve got a heart as big as my skull is square; still, as I trot through the festive streets, strands of twinkling lights weaved above like a net to catch falling stars, a ripple of melancholy runs through my stocky frame. Could it be that all this light doesn’t quite reach the shadows curled snug beneath my ribs?

You see, my dad is the sort that spins on the axis of my world, but humans—well, they don’t wear the years as we do. They fade slower, like a sigh in a windstorm. My dad is elsewhere this Christmas, beyond the fringes of Spencerville, and though I know we’re threading this absence together with the promise of reunion, tonight it feels a bit like chewing on a raw carrot. That’s to say, entirely unpleasant.

So this is where we dive paws-first into the evening—I, sauntering along Golden Retriever River, watching the magic of reflection play upon the waters, festive and mocking. Wouldn’t you know it, as I aimlessly cross over to Westie Woods, nursing a distinct lack of pizza-induced contentment, an ethereal presence descends upon me, wagging a tale of wonder.

A guardian angel, if you will—though I refuse to admit surprise. It happens to us all, or so the barkings say. Whispers of wings and the quiet settling of a being more light than substance beside me. “Bentley,” it speaks without speaking, “would you take a stroll through a could-have-been?”

My jowls lift in what I’d like to believe is an expression of amused skepticism — I excel at skepticism. Who wouldn’t when you’ve seen what paws and noses can dig up?

The angel, persistent in cheer, ushers me through Westie Woods to behold scenes stitched in the tinsel glow. The ripple of hearty laughter, warming like a belly rub, springs from gatherings I’ve graced. The light touching of muzzles—a greeting between friends—exchanged because I showed them how. Little snouts poking through the fences, yearning for the togetherness I inspired. And would you look at that—Fat Russell, gloriously chunky, leading the charge against the feared green bean.

The angel assures me of my indelible pawprint left in their hearts. But it’s my dad’s eyes where I need to be, where I’m the guardian of his smile. And there it is shown to me, clear as the snort at the thought of vegetables—my jokester ways easing his weary brow, my hefty build a fortress in his hours of need.

Finally, we stand at the edge of Brindle Brown Boxer Beach, my reflection winking at me from the odds and ends of shattered seashells. I know now what this guardian angel’s game is—a nudge toward the truth. This isn’t about the sparks I’ve kindled for others, not really; it’s about the flame I keep alive within. I’m woven into Spencerville’s legend, and by George, they’re spun right into mine. We’re a tapestry, a blend of fur and faith, waiting, just waiting, ’til we’re gathered up in arms that don’t have to let go.

So it’s with a gallant, albeit squashy-faced, grin I thank my festive specter. The skies are opening, dropping their blanket of white like setting the stage for a new act. And as I waddle back through Spencerville with my angel watching over, I reckon I’m ready for the encore. Because in this place where every sniff is an adventure and every moment is a memory in the making, one thing’s for sure—I’m not just a dog in Spencerville; I’m Bentley, lover of life and perpetual bringer of the wonderful bark.

The End.