Hey Mom,

Just saved Spencerville from being dust-bustered by aliens. Who knew our bark was mightier than their tech? Turned out to be quite the tail-wagging kerfuffle, but we showed them the door with a good old Spencerville leash-lashing. Don’t worry, still got plenty of time for sunbathing.

Over and out,
Rusty Bucket 🐾

I was lying belly-up in the balmy meadows of Fawn Cream Maltese, letting the sun toast my tummy to perfection, when I first noticed the peculiarity in the sky—a zigzagging light, swift as a dragonfly on a caffeine rush. There’d been whispers, of course, of strange tidbits happening around the fringes of our cozy, tail-wagging Spencerville. But these were usually just tall tales spun by old Max, his narratives often fueled by too many nibbles on the kibble at Chow Hound Café.

“Why, Rusty, you resemble a roasted chestnut,” quipped Maggie, her floppy ears casting quaint little shadows on my snout. She never did pass up an opportunity for a spot of banter.

I yawned, a gaping display that would’ve snagged flies had I not had the deftness of a ninja. “Maggie, dear, we Corgis age like fine wine in an oak barrel—”

And that’s when it happened. The sky turned a shade I’d only seen in the slop they attempted to pass off as ‘mystery’ at Pupsicle Palace.

“A bit gauche for a daytime setting, don’t you think?” I said, ever the critic.

But Maggie wasn’t listening—she was staring, transfixed, as a downright gaudy spaceship, resplendent like a Christmas bauble misplaced in spring, made a rather inelegant descent right onto the lush, freshly mown grass of Upper Collie Canyon.

It disrupted my routine, and let me be frank, I do not budge for spaceships.

We trotted up to the scene, our approach cautious yet curious—alright, mostly curious. Think of the new sniffs, I reasoned!

The hatch popped open with all the finesse of a beleaguered postman at The Howling Husky Hardware Store. Out popped the most bewildering, tentacle-waving varmints Spencerville had ever seen—aliens, with eyes like the doggy disco balls of Waggle n’ Wok.

“Greetings!” I barked, for diplomacy should be extended to all, intergalactic visitors or otherwise.

Contrary to expected interstellar etiquette, they did not bring gifts. No, they hovered, brandishing what can only be described as a rather gauche vacuum cleaner.

“A cleaning service? This is refined turf grass, mind you!” Maggie barked, indignant.

The visitors warbled something entirely unsatisfactory and waved their suction device menacingly.

After three sniffs, an informed guess, and a hasty conference behind the oak (ol’ Max in attendance), we concluded they were not here to freshen the petunias.

The interlopers didn’t know about the Spencerville spirit—our tenacity, our unity, and our dubious honor code. With a bark and a bristle, we rallied the troops. The Doggy Depot was plundered for armor, The Pooch Playhouse for strategic HQ, and the soulful howls from The Howling Husky served as our call to arms.

We faced stalemates and dog treats lost in battle. The aliens soon found their spaceship draped in an intricately knit web of leashes and collars—a Spencerville special.

The sight must have dissuaded them. They receded like the tide pulling away from a particularly unappetizing fish.

In the hush that followed their retreat, we wagged our tails to the beat of victory, Spencerville’s banners held high—woven from chewed-up tennis balls and gnawed sticks.

“You think they learned their lesson?” Maggie asked as we lounged once more in the meadows.

“They underestimated the power of the pack, dear Maggie. Spencerville might wait for reunions, but we’re not idle—the aliens only saw the wag, they never counted on the bite.”

We returned to our days of leaf rustles, squeaky toys, and smoked salmon dreamt in shades of brown and white. But should the skies twinkle oddly again, we’d remember the day we were more than pets; we were defenders—an epawic indeed.

The End.