Hey Mom,

Spencerville’s regaling me with the usual: hot dogs for breakfast, ghost dog shenanigans, and shadowless mutts at doggie brunch. Had a rain-soaked adventure with Alli and ended up philosophizing under a Taco Joint awning. It’s a tail-waggin’ life!

Catch you on the sunny side,
Ryder/Bubba

Listen: Ryder here.

And so it goes, in Spencerville, that fragrant morning where Upper Black Bulldog Bay intersects with a horizon cracked open like a fresh can of tennis balls, a spectral sun yawning its ghostly stretch across the sky.

I start my day with a romp to Kibble Cuisine, because, let’s be honest, it’s never too early for a snippet of bliss in the shape of a hot dog. They float down from the empyrean grill—perfect, sizzling, a culinary ballet. Destiny smells quite delectably like barbecued meat around these parts. So I gobbled one, maybe three, who’s counting? Dogs don’t need math.

Trailing the scent to Breakfast-topia, I witnessed a phantasmagoric sight—dogs casting no shadows and kibble floating mid-air like gastronomic UFOs, which was not entirely unpleasant. It was a typical Spencerville supernatural Saturday. We get those here, as natural as flea baths in a dunk tank.

After my morning feed, a walk is in order. I stroll past The Snooty Snout Boutique, where leashes were trying on dogs for a change. Quite a reversal of fates, I mused. A pup to my left gave a philosophical yawn, and I thought, that’s me on a good day—a real fire hydrant of wisdom and grace.

Rain looms, a steely-eyed mutt on the prowl, but not yet biting. I ever tell you I’ve got the gumption of a kitten toward raindrops? It’s my shadow’s kryptonite. But there’s no hiding when the clouds do their dance—after all, one can’t shuffle away from one’s shadow.

Ah, there’s Alli. My brindle-clad compatriot, her gaze cuts through the apparitions of Beagle Beach like afternoon sun through peanut butter. We don’t talk much about peanut butter in Spencerville; it’s a silent understanding, a nod to the sacred.

“We’re chasing phantoms today, Alli,” I whoofed, as heroically unheroic as it sounds. She’s cool, tail-knotted in casual contemplation—a touch of stoicism does the heart good, mom always said.

The surf seemed a liquid mirage, only wetter. We dug for phantom bones, remnants of ghost cows perhaps, bellowing their bovine chuckles from beyond. Digging is for the soul–even if sand fits awkwardly between your paws.

Let me drop a little wisdom here—digging up bones doesn’t get old. I dug up a spectral squeaker once, on the all-too-rare dead squirrel beach day. It squeaked with an ethereal echo that almost sounded celestial. But the rain waited for no hound, and soon it’s a gentle torrent.

Cue my existential dread. Rain is nature’s bath, and I do love nature, except when it behaves like that one uncle who smells like mothballs—too close and too personal. I don half-hearted bravery and muster for what feels like the umpteenth time. Alli stands by, stoic as a statue of herself.

Drenched to the bone, we brave the tempest—all bark, less bite—and dash for shelter at Pup ‘n’ Go Taco Joint. Here, I think on survival, against the terrific turmoil of a storm washing over Spencerville.

I’ll tell you this, life here is the kind of tale that wags the dog, not the other way around. And when the skies clear, as they always do for a sunny-side spirit like mine, I’ll be ready for another adventure with Alli—after I dry off and extract those darn grains of sand from my paws, of course.

And somewhere, between the sniffing and the wrestling and the spectral nonsense, it’s a doggone good existence. Waiting for my human, sure, but making the celestial leap with a heckin’ good time along the way.

So it goes.

The End.

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