Hey Dad,

Epic news! I, Percy (a.k.a. Fleabag), just became Spencerville’s latest legend. Led my furry squad on a quest for the mythical Deer Leg of Destiny, dodged some super-chill cat guardians, and snagged the ultimate chew toy trophy. Now I’m a local hero with a tale spreading faster than a squirrel in a dog park. Tail wags all-round!

Catch you on the flip side,
Perce 🐾

There comes a time in the life of an adventurous, sinewy Entlebucher Mountain Dog when the allure of Spencerville’s evergreen terrains calls more fervently than a dinner bell to a famished hound. Not to imply that dinner bells or famishment are in any short order in this haven for the departed pets—where indeed my days are spent in blissful repose or exuberant jaunts—but to stress that the call was metaphorical, and represented the innate desire for exploration. Because, dear reader, I am no ordinary mutt. I am Percy. And Percy is me.

On a day that felt particularly Tuesday-ish—if days had the propensity to feel like days of the week in this timeless town—I found myself at the helm of an epic quest. I had awoken with that tingling in my paws which ominously whispered of forthcoming escapades. As it turned out, my tingling paws were spectacularly prescient.

It all began with a whisper on the wind (or perhaps it was gossip at The Barkery, the details remain unfathomably muddy) of an ancient treasure buried beneath the pines of Western Husky Hill. Legend spoke of a relic so infused with pet lore and fragrant meats, that it sent one’s tail wagging into overdrive. It was, allegedly, the Deer Leg of Destiny—and I decided that it would be mine.

Now, legends are peculiar narratives; they’re much like that leftover lasagna in the fridge—a tad fuzzy around the edges and prone to cause turbulent dreams. The Deer Leg of Destiny had the smack of an epic shaggy dog story, but I wasn’t about to turn my wet nose up at a good shaggy dog story.

So, with my muscled legs pumping with vitality, I sauntered into Pup-Tizers for a light brunch of beef tips to fortify myself for the journey. I then gathered my most daring compatriots—a poodle with pom-poms who fancied herself a philosopher, a shaggy sheepdog with the nose of a bloodhound, and a dachshund who claimed to be a descendent of royalty (clearly a delusion but endearing all the same).

“Friends,” I barked, a gleam in my eye, “today we quest for a treasure most profound!”

Their tails offered the only assent I needed, and with that, we were off. The journey was bedecked with trials that would shake the squeaker from any lesser toy. We scaled the peaks of Shih Tzu Stadium, which took all of two minutes, a quick romp, really. But drama, like beauty, is often compressed into the smallest of actions.

The Deer Leg of Destiny was said to be protected by the Guardians—cats with eyes like saucers, glaring down with ambivalence and slight annoyance. They lounged upon the limbs of the pines, their collective purring was a melody of indifference.

I glanced at my compatriots, their resolve radiating like the heat from Pup-Tastic Pizza’s ovens. “To triumph,” I posited, “we must employ the most cunning of tactics.”

And, in an act of unparalleled strategy, which I’m absolutely certain our own unique brand of Darwin would have applauded, we simply ignored the cats. With ennui their weapon, attention their sustenance, the Guardians dissipated as if smoke carried away by the wind.

After what might’ve been days, or perhaps minutes, time being rather a subjective creature on this side of existence, we unearthed the Deer Leg of Destiny amidst a copse of alders beside Golden Retriever River.

It was as majestic as a chewed-up bootleg. And I, dear reader, was rapt with rapture. We rejoiced with howls and barks that probably, I suspect, made the angels (or whatever celestial beings oversee Spencerville) lament their impeccable hearing.

We returned as heroes, our tale already a legend whispered at The Doggy Depot, embellished as it swirled through the gossip mongers at Woof and Whisker Wellness Center, and by the time it reached The Barking Boutique, I had grown wings and was half-squirrel. Typical.

Life here is a tapestry, my friends, steeped in the fantastical. And as I lie here, my mighty Deer Leg of Destiny resting between my victorious paws, I muse on the delightful absurdity that comes with being Percy—the canine incarnation of mischief, loyalty, and a historic aversion to salads. Adventure, it seems, remains this dog’s most beloved chew toy.

The End.