Hey Mom and Dad,

Just another day in Spencerville, where I played detective with Martha the Bloodhound sniffing out some otherworldly shenanigans. We stumbled upon pugs juggling treats, kittens dabbling in quantum physics, and a slight reality tear. I might’ve hinted at witchcraft, but it’s more kitten craft than anything else. Just your typical Wednesday. Spent the rest of the day chewing on a delicious bone and pondering life’s mysteries. No worries, I’m keeping both paws grounded in this quirky afterlife.

Licks and wags,
Vincent (aka Bear Cub)

It’s not every day a dog gets to narrate his post-existential meanderings, but today isn’t just any day, it’s my day and I feel compelled to share. I say ‘compelled’ because what is a dog with a story if not an orator of the canine condition?

I awoke to the sun, which was already busying itself in that annoying way solar bodies do – insistently shining with a sort of cosmic hubris. I stretched, shook off the remnants of a dream involving an infinite fire hydrant, and pondered the day ahead in Spencerville. The streets here are paved with good intentions, possibly bacon; it’s hard to tell with the olfactory heights we dogs can reach.

Today felt like one of those surreal days where dimension is but a plaything, a chew toy to be tossed and caught in the wide open expanse of the universe’s backyard. I was sitting on my usual couch, savoring the dawn hue slinking through Shepherd Skyline, when suddenly the scenery flickered. A glint in the air; the punchline to a joke that reality was about to tell.

I ambled over to K9 Kebabs, an establishment whose culinary wizardry with meat on sticks was yet to be rivalled in any realm, I’m almost sure. There I met Martha, the bloodhound who ran the joint, her jowls dragging along mystic spices wherever she roamed.

“Vincent,” she said with a voice like smoked hickory, “something’s afoot. Other than you and me, I mean.”

“Is it a squirrel?” I queried, my interest piqued. I’m not one for frivolities, as mentioned, but a squirrel is always a “‘sit and take notice” kind of affair.

“No,” she confided, her nostrils flaring up like twin heralds of unseen news. “A whiff of something… otherworldly. More than the usual, anyway.”

“That’s the spirit!” Well, it could’ve been, I hadn’t smelt it yet. I nodded with the gravity one musters when discussing the supernatural over grilled skewers, “Lead on, Martha.”

She led me through a shimmering glaze of existence where I felt both like a pup and a wizened hound simultaneously. We clambered towards Pug Palace – and let me tell you, its occupants don’t appreciate surprises of a spectral variety. But surprise them we did.

We arrived to see the court jesters, or pugs, waddling about in frenzied chaos. Each one was on his hind legs, juggling doggy treats. How Ghostbusters never covered the phenomenon of juggling pugs, I’ll never know. But there it was, and here we were – bystanders to the waggish waggle of interdimensional jesters.

“What is this, a fuzzy convention of the paranormal?” I barked out, trying to be heard over the cacophony.

Just then, Princess Victoria appeared with a stately grace that often contrasted with the shenanigans of Spencerville. “Vincent!” she called out with a twinkle in her soulful eyes. “I do believe we’ve been pranked.”

And she was correct, to the surprise of nobody, because she usually was. It appeared that we’d been caught in a very localized hiccup in the charming fabric that held Spencerville together. A little tear in reality, possibly stitched up by a enthusiastic kitten with a quantum needle.

“Witchcraft?” I suggested, turning over the possibility like a well-seasoned steak.

“Only if by witch you mean kittens, and by craft, mathematicians,” Victoria retorted, nodding towards a corner where indeed, a group of kittens were pawing through volumes of quantum physics.

The pugs began a descending diminuendo back to our understanding of physics. The day was settling back into its groove, and as it did, my breakfast beckoned. There was a dental bone with my name on it – not literally. No one writes on those things unless with poor dental hygiene.

“We’ll call it ‘The Great Pug Juggle of Wednesday’,” I declared, as we settled back into a Spencerville now a little more mundane.

And so life in Spencerville goes. We have our bizarre days, our serene moments, our thunder to despise and our dental bones to live for. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that no matter what reality you find yourself tail deep in, there’s nothing like a good chew to end the day.

In truth, I’m quite content here – between the supernormal and the ordinary, sharing a tale, waiting for one day, when my old family and I will share more than memories. But for now, I have a cupboard to rearrange. Who said a dog’s afterlife can’t be both paranormal and productive?

The End.