Hey Dad,

Guess who’s a spacefaring hero now? Survived the Labrador Nebula, outsmarted a black hole, and snagged the legendary Bone of Sirius! Eternally wagging tails here we come. Your suburban bulldog’s gone cosmic! #AstronautAlbert

Cheers,
Bobo 🚀🐾

Listen: Albert’s got a tale for you, and it’s not that kind of tail that wags when the smell of bacon dances in the air. It was another typical moonlit night; one of those nights where the humans think their loyal companions are curled up, lost in dreams of chasing squirrels. But not Albert. Albert was bound for adventure in that mystical, dog-only metropolis of Pawsburgh. And oh, how the neon signs of Amber Akita Alley shimmered like the collar of a show dog strutting her stuff at the Westminster show.

So it is.

I remember trotting into Cocker Courtyard, feeling the sigh of the cosmos cradle me—me, an unassuming bulldog from the suburbs, chosen by celestial fate to captain The Hound’s Howl, my trusty spaceship parked clandestinely behind Fetch! Toys and Treats. My crew? A pack of the finest astral navigators; Baker was the engineer with a bark much worse than his bite, Lilly kept the comms, and Lil Rosie, she was the gunner—tiny but fierce.

We were heading out on Operation Milkbone, a mission to the outer edges of the Canine Cluster to sniff out the lost Bone of Sirius. Legends said it could make a tail wag with eternal happiness, and we aimed to find it. The universe was our backyard, and we dug through it like it was full of bones—because in a way, it was.

“It looks like a straight shot through the Labrador Nebula,” I said, my English Bulldog accent probably far thicker than I imagined. “Let’s avoid the void poodles this time.”

“Aye, Captain,” they barked in unison, and we were off through the stardust, leaving behind the steamy aroma of Chihuahua’s Chimichangas.

I usually didn’t hold much truck with destiny—or vacuum cleaners, for that matter. But floating there in the cockpit, past galaxies that swirled like my human’s idea of modern art, I couldn’t help but feel small. But not alone. Not ever that.

We had our scuffles—no space opera’s worth its salt without a clash or two with cosmic cats or the occasional space squirrel skirmish. But it was at Puppy Plate where we faced our greatest challenge yet: a doggone black hole, right in the flight path, pulling us with the promise of treats we knew weren’t really there. Classic black hole trick.

Baker growled, fidgeting with knobs and dials. “We ain’t gonna make it!”

I couldn’t let my crew down. Not in a million dog years. Think, Albert, think! So I did the only thing I could think: I channeled my inner chase instinct and hightailed it out of there. Because that’s what you do when you’re a bulldog—a leader. You charge ahead.

And would you believe it? We made it. Just a hop, skip, and a jump past the border collie constellation, and there it was, shining like a beacon: the Bone of Sirius.

“It’s… it’s beautiful,” Lilly gasped.

“Looks chewable,” mused Lil Rosie, eyes gleaming.

“Mission accomplished,” I woofed, barely containing the drool. It had been a tough ride, tougher than resisting the urge to nap in a sunbeam or figuring out why humans pretended to throw the ball.

With the Bone of Sirius secured in our cargo bay, we made our way back to Pawsburgh, just as dawn was breaking over the horizon of the human world. The Hound’s Howl slipped behind Fetch! Toys and Treats, and I, Captain Albert, returned to my kingdom of well-loved toys.

So, if one morning your bulldog seems unusually cheerful, remember that it might be more than just the prospect of breakfast—it might just be the joy of interstellar triumph, and a bone that promises eternal tail-wags.

And so it goes.

The End.