Hey Mom,

Just wrapped up my latest caper in Spencerville—turned out to be a ghostly bagel bakery dodging cream cheese! My trusty dusting glove and Autumn’s charm cracked it, and I’ve never been more thankful for life’s little luxuries. There’s a chill in my bones that isn’t just from the October air. 🎃🐾🕵️‍♂️

Stay snuggled,
Marley Jaxon

You wouldn’t believe the spine-tingling tale that ruffled my fur in Spencerville, that near-utopian hamlet where we departed pets frolic in a quasi-mortal coil. It was a Howl-o-ween to remember, and while I Marley Jaxon, dapper mix of Yorkie and Cocker that I am, usually frolic amongst the canine ghosts of my nature, this particular evening had the hairs on the back of my neck doing a little dance all their own.

The sun had dipped behind Collie Canyon, and the moon hung full and heavy over Shih Tzu Stadium, bathing the streets in an eerie, milky glow. Now, I’m no coward. I’ve stood guard over my backyard dominion back when I had, well, a backyard. But there are few things less unnerving than the familiar becoming unfamiliar, and as I trotted through East Bulldog Bay; it might as well have been Transylvania.

The evening was still early, the sort one could call ‘pregnant with circumstance.’ I made a pit stop at Dog-gone Good BBQ for a nibble of a savory bone when I heard it — the subtle creak of The Pawfect Training Center’s door swinging in the gentle wind. Unusual, as the hour had grown late for such industrious pursuits.

Upon additional scrutiny, the unexpected chill that coursed through my small frame wasn’t solely the product of the testy breeze. Nay, I sauntered closer to investigate, clutching my beloved Norwex dusting glove — ‘Baby,’ as it were — as though it could ward off spirits. If only I believed it could.

“Repetition is the mother of learning,” they used to say, yet what could I learn from this? EllaRee, that poodle sister of mine, would have scurried away, but I pride myself on my vast personality that cannot be easily contained within my petite form. I pride myself on bravery.

The door huffed, puffed, and revealed within a scene laid out for the macabre. Crunching beneath paw — kibble? No, small, white, terrible: bones. Howls echoed as a symphony of the damned, and I, resident sleuth and gourmet of whipped cream, was not about to turn tail. My heart throbbed with the rhythm of the inexplicable; my palsied whiskers twitched at the scent of otherworldliness.

Just as the chill nipped dangerously at my resolve, she appeared: Autumn — grace wrapped in fur, the keeper of my heartstrings, the auburn light in otherwise darkened proceedings. But her eyes — once deep pools of understanding — now mirrors of an abyss, carrying an impenetrable gloss.

“Marley,” she beckoned, voice a siren’s whisper through the vastness of my dread. I approached, “Baby” tucked firmly beneath my jaw. “You’ve found our little secret.”

And so she unveiled the horror of horrors: Spencerville, a place of canine spirit and zest, also cradled a shadow in its bosom. A phantom baker had taken residence in the Doggy Bagel Deli after dark, an ethereal figure doomed to bake for an eternity, bringing forth otherworldly confections seasoned with the terror of permanence — a spectral metaphor for our own existence, perhaps?

“An eternity of bagels,” muttered Autumn, head cocked in a solemn nod, “Bagels, but no cream cheese, Marley. No cream cheese!”

The true face of horror, I realized; an eternity without dairy’s crowning triumph. Pet or poltergeist, some fates are too harrowing to stomach.

As I sit here now, with EllaRee snuggled by my side and Autumn’s embrace a reassurance against the night, I muse over the terror of infinity and carbohydrates. It’s enough to make one laugh — and tremble —as they toss a ratty dusting glove to the floor, grateful for walks, cuddles, and the knowledge that although one day we shall all be reunited with our families, until then, be it bagels or bones, it’s best to savor the whipped cream while you can.

The End.

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