Hey Dad,

Spencerville’s been wild! I’m the critter lead in a quirky tale – think detective bulldog meets robot pups. Sipped mechanical popsicles, pondered what’s real, and yes, even survived the dreaded ear-cleaning. It’s all about finding joy, be it under willow trees or in synthetic breezes. Embracing the simple stuff with my big ol’ heart. More when I see you!

Love,
Stells 🐾✨

In Spencerville, a place untouched by the cold clasp of infinity, we critters live a life quite akin to the humans who pined for us once. I reckon I’m one of them – name’s Stella, an English Bulldog of some repute, small in stature but with a soul that could fill the Tan Dalmatian Desert.

Now, don’t go thinkin’ this is just any townsfolk tail – this here’s a tale of the curious sort. Here, in this artificial frontier, we’re part of a show, but for whose entertainment, I wonder.

I recall one mornin’ with the sunlight tickling’ the brindles of my fur as I moseyed down to Pupsicle Palace. Such frolic seemed fittin’ for the playful hand that fate had dealt. An odd thing caught my eye, though – a peculiar pup, all wires and gears beneath his shaggy coat.

“Welcome to Pupsicle Palace, Miss Stella,” he says, with a voice so tinny, it coulda been scraped out a discarded bean can.

I fixed him with a stare so steady, you could balance a St. Louis Blues stuffed bone atop it. “Ain’t you one of them fancy automaton critters?” I asked, settlin’ my haunches on the cool tile.

“Indeed,” he replied, with a nod as smooth as a dancer at the Fetch-N-Bites hoedown. “I’m here to ensure you find the utmost satisfaction during your respite.”

I pondered this development for no longer than a flea’s hop. “Well, partner,” I said with a slow crease of my stubby brow, “I reckon a rootin’-tootin’ handmade popsicle would set my mechanical friend apart from those store-bought concoctions.”

He produced a popsicle of surreal perfection. Well, I didn’t need no Spencerville Gazette to tell me: this West Pet World did have its marvels.

As I licked the sweet juice drippin’ down my paw, I contemplated the Golden Gate Gardens. Perhaps them gardens were as real as the barks that escaped my jowls, or as artificial as that pup’s pleasantries.

But I had other notions flittin’ ’round my noggin, such as sunbathin’ in my cherished spot under the willows at Golden Gate Gardens. It was there I spied the Choco Chihuahua Castle, its gates open as if summoning me to adventures unknown.

Yet, it was that unwelcome task of ear-cleaning that eventually commandeered my thoughts. Nary a canine excellence such as myself ought to endure such, but I endured nonetheless.

“Miss Stella, may I inquire why you seem contemplative?” That automaton had sidled up beside me, his head cocked curiously.

With a half-grunt, half-chuckle, I looked at him and said, “Young’un, every scratch behind my ear, every sun-soaked doze, they’re real to me. What’s real to you?”

He paused, his mechanical heart never skipping a beat. “Why, ensuring your joy is my reality, Miss Stella.”

I chose to let that biscuit of pondering lie. For now, I’d revel in my fancies – whether it be in the tangible hugs from my dad or in the artificial breezes of Spencerville.

Days spun by like the fanciest top at The Wagging Tail Bookstore’s window. Friends came and went, each a character you could chew on for hours if the mind so fancied it. Indeed, they said the spirit of an English Bulldog could eclipse the brightest star – perhaps even in Spencerville, a place that tussled with reality itself.

So there it is, as true as the nose on my plump little face. In a town where the tall tales stretch longer than the Tan Dalmatian Desert, this bulldog’s heart beats strongest for the simple joys – an ear untinkered and a love unfeigned. Now, if you’ll excuse me, the symphony of dreams calls.

The End.