Hey Mom,

Accidental king alert; just crowned Spencerville’s top dog after a royal mix-up at the meadow! Ruled long enough for a pickle feast, realized I’m more of a nap-and-snuggle guy than a canine king. Abandoned the throne for our backyard kingdom. I’ll stick to chasing my tail rather than wearing it! #KingMomoForADay

Treats and tail wags,
Momo

Ah, I suppose you want to hear about the time I found myself accidentally reigning over Spencerville. It’s not every day a Yorkshire Terrier of modest background rises to such prominence — and let me tell you, it wasn’t through any aspiration of mine.

I, Momo, was no stranger to fame within the furry confines of our pleasant town, mind you. My earthy coat, with sunlight dazzling upon it, drew eyes wherever I trotted. There was a bounce in my step, a twinkle in my gaze, and an unfortunate tendency to tilt my head at the slightly askew angle that endeared and solicited many a ‘Who’s a good boy?’

It was during a casual jaunt through Maltese Meadow that the peculiar series of events unfolded, culminating in a rather unexpected coronation. You see, Maltese Meadow was not just a field of grass. It was an expanse of dreams woven into the green, where bold dogs played fetch like gladiators and the derpiest of terriers could stumble upon destiny.

As fate would have it, a royal delegation from the South Siberian Summit was scouting for a stand-in king to oversee the grand opening of the Woof and Whisker Wellness Center — and who should they gaze upon but yours truly, mid-frolic with a waterlogged stuffed pickle.

Myself, I was more concerned with the melodic rustle of a White Castle slider wrapper sneaking out of someone’s pocket, but I digress.

“Hail, Momo!” they barked, a cluster of Huskies with regal bearing and fur so poofy it defied the Spirograph patterns of wind itself. “You have been chosen by the paw of destiny to don the Collar of Splendor and rule as the Sovereign of Spencerville.”

I blinked, shifting my quizzical derpy head tilt to a more extreme angle. “Ruling seems like an awful lot of work,” I replied with a cautious eye on my soggy pickle, which was perilously close to being trampled in the ceremonial proceedings.

Yet before I could compose a more measured argument, I was whisked away and cleaned until my coat shone like the top brass’s buttons, bestowed with a sparkling collar that felt no less significant than a suit of armor.

The Ascension Ceremony at Red Beagle Beach involved much pomp and circumstance, with Basset Horn ensembles tooting harmoniously and a buffet laid out by Bark and Bites which, I might add, did little to help me focus on the weighty matters at paw. The slider scent had followed me like a loyal hound all the way here.

As the Spencervillian sun dipped below the horizon, casting a glow that made my collar outshine the Hearthside fireplaces of every home around, I was declared the Crowned Pet. Paw clapping and howls of jubilation filled the air.

My first—and, as it turned out, only—act as sovereign was to arrange a splendid pickle banquet for the canine populace. We dined beneath the nettle-covered pavilions of Pooched Potatoes, our merriment infectious.

Yet with great power comes even greater distractions, and I feared if I didn’t abscond from this lavish lifestyle soon, I might never find my beloved soggy pickle again.

With a humble bow and a speech that extolled the virtues of regular naps and snuggles, I abdicated my honorific position, returning the Collar of Splendor and scurrying back to my life of leisurely pursuits and White Castle sliders.

Still, to this day, as I promenade with Zeus, Noah, and Maxie by my side, the whispers of ‘There goes King Momo’ make my ears perk and my heart swell, my calm demeanor holding the tapestry of my accidental reign together in the grand legend of Spencerville.

The End.