Hey Mom, guess who just went from local tennis ball champ to stranded island survivor? 🐾 Got whisked away to a desert island, rallied a canine crew, built a resort outta palm leaves, and sailed back with tales to wag! Home soon for belly rubs and a hero’s feast. Miss you! 🎾✨🏝️ ~ Wild Willow

It was on an otherwise ordinary Tuesday (or at least I estimate it was Tuesday because that’s vacuum cleaning day, hence the worst day of the week) when I, Willow—resident Pomsky and professional tennis ball fetcher—accidentally found myself on an unexpected kind of adventure, the sort where you wag your tail less and wrinkle your snout more.

In the magical town of Pawsburgh, it is the unwritten law that every dog must return before their humans wake, work, or wonder where their furry companions have wandered off to. But laws, like those pesky “No Dogs Allowed” signs, are meant to be perused with a degree of skepticism.

Perhaps I should not have chased the butterfly beyond Weimaraner Woods. Perhaps I should have heeded the old Pekingese’s advice and “stayed the paw” away from Jade Jack Russell Junction at sundown. But there I was, chasing the flicker of wings until both butterfly and Willow found themselves tumbling headfirst into a portal hidden beneath a bush festooned with uncommonly sparkly berries.

When my paws finally found solid ground again, I noticed a distinct lack of the familiar ambiance of Pawsburgh. No Rottweiler’s Ribs smoked in the distance—ugh, I can practically smell the barbecued delights now—and no tunes from the Poodle’s Pasta karaoke night floated in the air. Instead, I was confronted by stretches of pristine sand, the surrounding water a clue that I was, indeed, utterly and irrefutably stranded… on an island.

I’ve heard tales from the old sea dogs at Pet Partners Pet Supplies about islands where they dared not dig for bones, and indeed, this seemed like one of those places. The first moments were rife with panic, but panic is exhausting and frankly, not very constructive. So I composed myself with the dignity that only a blue merle Pomsky with a corkscrew tail could muster and set out to explore.

The key to surviving, as the Cocker Spaniel Castaway book at the Furry Friends Art Gallery had detailed (between paintings of schnauzers in suave scarves), was forming alliances. As much as the silent company of a tennis ball comforts the soul, conversing with it fails to bring any answers, or so Tom Hanks had assured.

Not much later, I encountered a troop of dogs from every corner of the canine kingdom – all wide-eyed and fully realizing our shared pickle. There was a Beagle with a nose for mapping, a Boxer with a penchant for coconut bowling, and a Sheepdog whose fur could shelter a small republic in a storm. Together, we formed the Fellowship of the Stranded Dogs, a name that lacked imagination but made up for it in accuracy.

We built huts from palm leaves (the Sheepdog was essentially a walking construction material), found fresh water (that Beagle, what a nose!), and even constructed a raft (the Boxer wasn’t good at bowling, but could move logs like no one’s business).

For many turns of the moon cycle, we worked, paw-in-paw, to find our way home—home where our humans awaited us with worry in their hearts and treats in their hands. By day, I missed my family, and by night, I’d recount our progress to the stars, hoping they’d relay my messages of love and tenacity.

And when we finally set sail on our patchwork vessel, bouncing atop the gracious waves, I realized something profound. Being lost had found me a kind of bravery I didn’t know I had; it had woven a new layer into my story, one every bit as vibrant as my coat.

So fear not, dear reader, for by the time you nestle in your human’s lap again, I’ll be telling the tale of how Willow (yes, that’s me) and the Fellowship of the Stranded Dogs outwitted, outplayed, and outlasted the perils of an uncharted island, armed with naught but wit, companionship, and an inextinguishable spirit. And a tennis ball, naturally.

The End.