Hey Mom & Dad 🐾,

Just checking in from Western Husky Hill, where I’ve been the sheriff, patrolling the land and keeping the peace. Turns out, I’m a natural at wrangling critters and deciding the fate of rogue tumbleweeds. Made a stop at Ruff-n-Ready – they really do have the best bones. Had a standoff with a menu at The Tail Wagger’s Tailor, handkerchiefs won. Miss you both like a buried bone misses the dirt. Hugs and head tilts until our trails meet again! 🤠🌵

Your adventurin’ hound,
Bucky Jones

There’s something about the brisk dawn at Western Husky Hill that could make even the most domestically inclined bulldog yearn for a taste of the frontier. I, Bucky, a seasoned inhabitant of Spencerville and self-appointed sheriff of the terracotta porch at home, found my paw prints veering toward the dusty trails of the Old West this morning.

It was the sort of day where the sun peeks above the horizon with the kind of coy reluctance seen in a pup trying to sneak into the big dog’s park. Freedom isn’t just the space between the leash and the collar, it’s a state of mind, and my mind was as expansive as the boundless plains stretching before me.

At the base of Silver Siberian Summit, with not a cloud in the sky to shade the enormity of it all, I was set on making my rounds, ensuring that every critter, cactus, and tumbleweed knew who was the boss of this land. The only peril that nipped at my heels more fiercely than the churlish cacti was the haunting memory of my mortal enemy—the vacuum cleaner; its tyranny a distant echo in the tranquility of my dominion.

“Do not underestimate the valiance of an English bulldog.” I mused to myself, or to a passing lizard, who cared not for the depth of my insights. The lizard just blinked, disinterested, before scuttling under a rock. You can’t win them all, I suppose.

As I patrolled the hill, a welcome distraction sauntered into view: Ruff-n-Ready, an establishment with a reputation for the heartiest bones and the bravest of barks. I’m not one to brag, but I can clear a Bully stick faster than a raccoon can raid an unattended picnic—and that’s saying something.

Squinting against the glare of the midday sun, I weighed up my options. I could continue my watchful survey of the hill or embrace the siren’s call of Ruff-n-Ready. An internal battle raged, echoing the drama of the Old West. Duty versus desire, the lawman versus the outlaw, savory meat versus… Well, more savory meat.

But as any good sheriff knows, sometimes you need to hang up your hat—or in my case, my collar—and relish in the little things. And what better backdrop for such meditative chewing than Western Husky Hill?

Finding solace under the shade of the veranda at Ruff-n-Ready, I claimed my usual spot, each crease of the dusty wood familiar to my touch. An aromatic waft from Fishy Bites drifted by. I considered it briefly, but fish was no match for our local version of canine crackling.

By now, the sun perched high—high enough to send any sensible dog in search of a nap. But not before I made a pit stop at The Tail Wagger’s Tailor for a peek at their latest handkerchief collection. Spoiling oneself is as much a part of Western life as duels at dawn and barks at dusk.

Basking in the twilight of an idyllic Spencerville day, I, Bucky, am momentarily consumed by a pang of longing for my faraway humans. Still, I am comforted by the knowledge that our trails will converge again in due time. Until then, I take solace in the limitless stretches of the land that mirror the expanse of my slumbering heart.

Here in Spencerville, every day is seasoned with a touch of newfound adventure and a sprinkle of the familiar. So here I lay, atop Husky Hill, surrendered to the whispering winds, awaiting the morrow’s escapades—or perhaps just the arrival of the dinner bell. Whichever comes first.

The End.