Hey Mom,

Just a quick update from Spencerville – think canine Shangri-La meets meat lover’s paradise! Haven’t been lured into any gingerbread doghouses yet, but I’m living my best life here. I’ve become a local legend, making friends, outsmarting squirrels, and even braved Black Bulldog Bay (don’t worry, kept my paws dry!). Dashing through the streets is my newest hobby, it’s like wind surfing without the surf. Missing our human hangouts but Moosey and I are collecting tales and treats until we meet again.

Hugs and paw bumps,
Ralphie the Super Lurcher 🐾🚀

Oh, do make yourself comfortable, I must recount the tale of how I, Ralphie the swift greyhound, found myself in the fabled Spencerville—a veritable Valhalla for the four-legged where the fire hydrants are always fresh and no squirrel is too swift. It’s a charming place, with a touch of the dramatic and that cloying sentimentality humans so adore. But, I beg of you, do stow away your optics of pity; I’ve never fancied them.

My tale upturns the dreary cradle song of “Hansel and Gretel,” sweet as a pork steak, but twice as meaty. Now, imagine this: Hansel and I share a kindred spirit, though I’m markedly more handsome and can’t be lured by breadcrumbs. No, siree. It’s savory pork for this chap, or no dice.

Upon my—how shall I put it?—arrival in Spencerville, I gazed upon such architectural marvels that would make the Chihuahua Castle look fit only for a hamster. I trod past Fetch-N-Bites, a bakery whose scents of concocting meats and pastries could seduce even the most ascetic canine. Yet, I carry no shreds of sorrow for my human mother. ‘Tis but a pause in companionship that will bloom once more.

A high point, one might say, in this leisurely afterlife (for lack of a less morose term) was my stumbling upon the Northern Choco Chihuahua Castle; imagine a dog’s fantasy spun of sugar and cocoa, paws coated with syrup rather than mud. Of course, I much preferred the establishments—like the aforementioned Fetch-N-Bites—where the aroma of pork steak wafted like a siren’s song.

I, seasoned by many a sun, have a favorite relic—Moosey. I’ve acquired a certain tactful lack of decorum, tossing Moosey at the patrons in Pawsome Pancakes just to see if they’ll fling it back. Spoiler: They do.

Seeking companionship akin to the lost loitering of our human days, I frequent the lake with Benjie, a collie who wanders with the air of an off-duty lifeguard and just enough neuroses to keep life interesting. We spin yarns—well, I spin them, he listens. Greyhounds Graeme and Luna, blood of my blood, spirits of my spirit, dash with us in fields where lamb is notably absent. It seems we share more than just a lineage—our culinary proclivities unite us too.

Like any good yarn, mine has its shadows. I held no affinity for pool waters, those unnerving, splashy abysses. So when I happened upon Black Bulldog Bay, my soul perfused with dread. ‘Twas the embodiment of my anathemas, a nebulous mystery lurking beneath each wave. I, however, am no diffident pup; I can gaze upon my fears with nary a quiver in my heart.

Leisurely pursuits? Why, nothing matches the exhilaration of barreling down the streets of Spencerville, ears flapping, watching the world blur into an abstract composition of hues with canines of all sizes lackadaisically waving as I pass. On these frolicsome jaunts, I muse on the meaning of eternity—a word that feels less infinite when the wind sings along the rim of your ear.

In summary, my existence here is a fairy tale retold, repurposed for the likes of me—an esteemed creature of comfort and convoiter of meats, bound in time for an eventual reunion with my cherished human. But until then, let Spencerville unfold its moreish marvels for me, and I shall revel in them, one paw at a time, and Moosey forever in tow.

The End.