Hey Dad!

Unreal Tuesday here. I, the remarkable Gabby a.k.a. Beast, brokered peace with aliens over Bark Burgers and taught them fetch, in exchange for extraterrestrial belly rubs. Spencerville remains safe, and I’m still your top dog! 🛸🐾👽

Tail wags and face licks,
Gabby

Ahem, do lean in close, for I am about to regale you with a tale that is absolutely preposterous—I assure you, it happened one rather extraordinary Tuesday.

This is Gabby, your narrator, the French Bulldog with a fondness for the peculiarly hedonic life of a pampered pooch, immortalised by my frolics in Spencerville—a utopian echo of my once earthly abode. You see, the tussles with my Hedgehog pal, the basking in the boundless sunshine, and those splendid strolls around Eastern White Westie Woods are but a few brush strokes in the grand painting of my life.

But this Tuesday, alright? This Tuesday was less about basking and more about… well, basking in a different sort of light—the metallic, gleaming, humming, rather suspect kind.

You must understand, Spencerville is hardly the locale for the galactic traveler. It’s rather more the domain of steadfast loyalty and eternal playdates. And yet, there I was, in Best in Show Photography staring at my dashingly composed portrait, when a cacophony rivaling my detestation for the vacuum cleaner erupted outside.

Picture it, a fleet (a small one, mind you, perhaps ‘charmingly boutique fleet’ is better) of saucers descending upon Pup-Tastic Pizza. I found myself waddling as fast as my stubby legs could convey me toward the ruckus. Ironic, considering my lifelong dream of an all-canine space program, Space-X, if you will, I had not expected to meet extraterrestrials eye to, well, whatever they had in place of eyes.

The aliens were odd little creatures, not entirely unlike a Bulldog that had mistakenly passed through a funhouse mirror. Quite rubbery, with more tentacles than seemed strictly necessary, all flailing about as they sampled the delights of Bark Burgers—apparently quite taken with the Mustard Relish Roverburger.

“Woof,” I offered wisely, an exclamation as much from surprise as the desire to evenly represent my species. The tentacled kin paused, addressing me in a series of curious whistles and gurgles. Now, I’m no linguist, but I barked again, this time signaling ‘negotiation’.

Unbeknown to them, I had already contemplated and rejected four different plans for Earth’s defense. By the fifth, however, I found myself teaching them the intricacies of fetch, using my beloved Hedgehog. An immediate hit, if their frenetic waving was anything to go by.

Bath-time negotiations (a term I coined, considering its similar horror to actual invasions) proceeded at Fetch-N-Bites over nibbles. Oddly, it turns out, cosmic travelers are not averse to a bit of roast beef debate.

Witnessing the spectacle, I sensed a notable shift in the ambiance. Like dinnertime at home, just before the can opens and the aroma dances through the kitchen. Trepidation gave way to fascination among my local kin.

Earth, I concluded on behalf of us all—while I lay on my back, paws up, performing my deadliest trick, “playing dead”—would offer an open paw to these beings, predominantly because they seemed to have mastered the art of belly rubs (with six tentacles no less, a luxury!).

The non-invasion concluded, we promised the aliens an alliance cemented by shared interests in meaty treats and mutual back-scratching. They left us then, in a mesmerizing parade of lights ascending into the great, yawning canvas of stars.

Back to frolicking and finely aged steak for me. For despite the day’s alien peculiarity, I couldn’t help thinking of the celestial rover lands that awaited. But those, dear friend, are stories for another doggy day.

As I share this memoir, know it is but a paw-print on the path of our shared existence—paw prints which, I might add, sometimes glow with the residue of extraterrestrial mischief. And as any good pup will tell you, it’s not the count of the saucers in the sky, but the quality of the belly rubs upon landing that truly matters.

So chin up, whiskers forward, and may your escapades be as delightfully absurd as a belly rub from an alien tentacle.

The End.