Hey Pal,

It’s Dozer, your four-legged narrator! I took a stroll in Westie Woods and ended up tangoing with a spooky lookalike! Swapped Bow Wow Burgers for sushi and found some real bark-biting chills. Don’t worry though, a Terrier’s bravery is tail-waggingly tenacious. If you feel a chill, it’s just me mastering my own ghost story!

Stay sniffy,
The Dazzling Dozer 🐾✨

In the ordinary, extraordinary town of Spencerville, where the hydrants never ceased sparkling and bones grew on trees if you looked hard enough, I, Dozer, resided as one of its infamously infamous characters. My sleek coat, a statement in every bark and bound, shimmered against the backdrop of a place that was not unlike what humans might call nirvana for the four-legged.

On a particularly peculiar day—that is, a day that felt like an ominous blend of mischief and forepaw—I was sauntering through Westie Woods, an agreeable labyrinth of trees and shrubbery designed specifically to cater to one’s sniffing sensibilities. Now, you might think that a dog’s life is all fetch and frolic, but let me assure you, us Spencervillian canines have broader interests—particularly on days that promise more than a few frights.

As it happened, the air was unusually still for a place that prided itself on a gentle breeze, and I had just exchanged a playful growl with a rustling bush when everything went muffled. The busy chirps and chatters of my neighboring creatures had ceased as if someone had pressed the giant paws button on life’s remote control.

In what can only be described as the dining dilemma of the decade, I had recently boycotted Bow Wow Burgers in favor of dining exclusively at The Cat’s Meow Sushi, which was notably odd considering my allegiance to meaty, less fishy pursuits. But change is as good as a rest, and I was in dire need of a change from the haunting monotony of kibble.

Amid the strange silence, a fog rolled into Westie Woods with the subtlety of a cat on a hot tin roof—sparse at first, then thickening with an almost tangible intention. There was a chill in the air, the sort of chill that made one’s fur stand on end and tail tuck of its own volition.

“This is peculiar,” I mumbled to myself, unaware of the looming shadows stretching out from the thickest parts of the fog. For you see, it’s quite difficult to note the peculiarities around you when your heart is drumming a frenzied beat against your rib cage.

I trudged on, my valiant spirit daring me to press further into the inexplicable gloom. My paws felt heavy, the weight of unease setting into each step. What I wouldn’t have given for a slice of that notorious crispy bacon to bolster my courage.

But then, the ground began to whisper. Not in the metaphorical way that romantic poets fancy, but in an actual, hissing, conspiring sort of whisper. It spoke my name—no, it called my name with a sound less like speech and more like the rustle of dead leaves.

“Dozer,” it rasped, chilling my bones. “Dozer.”

I stopped. Do dogs sweat? I’m certain I would have, had my physiology catered to such human expression. I glanced around, half expecting to see a phantom squirrel or a disembodied tail wag, but there was naught but the smothering fog.

In my heart, set to the rhythm of a funk unseen, I knew the trees were not what they seemed. They turned, faces hidden within their bark, watching me with unseen eyes.

“Good game we’re playing,” I addressed the forest, my own wit a surprising comfort. “Top-notch spook. I rate it an eight out of ten on the ‘made Dozer’s heart leap’ scale.”

A twig snapped like a canine caper gone wrong, and from the phantom fog emerged a hound of shadow and mist. It was like gazing into a doggy mirror, but where my fur was piano-key perfection, this creature was the absence of color, a dark form made less by daylight.

It growled, a sound that nearly had me fetching my own tail for comfort.

“You’re a handsome devil,” I admitted, “but I’m afraid in this tale, I’m the protagonist.”

My canine doppelganger lunged, but I was Terrier bred with a side of sass. With a yelp that was more courage than fright, I bounded away, my paws carrying me faster than they ever had through Golden Gate Gardens or any other squeaky toy-strewn path I had known.

Dozer’s tale of terror in Spencerville didn’t end that day, for the true spirit of a Boston Terrier can never really be snuffed out—not by fog or shadows or whispers in the woods.

And so, if you stroll through Westie Woods and the air chills like a visit to the vet’s, know that it’s just me, Dozer, playing with the specters and spectacles of Spencerville, the almost perfect town where not even horror can halt the wag of our tales.

The End.