Hey Mom,

Just wrapped up another day at the Pet Pharmacy as Salesdog of the Month – nailed it! I’ve got everyone eating out of my paw, quite literally, with my rubber duck sales charm. Dodged the indoor sprinkler fiasco (don’t worry, the coat’s still sleek) and pondered over mystery citrus meds. Wrapped the day dreaming of our ultimate playdate. The camera loves me – and I love it right back!

Catch you on the flip side,

Smuckers 🐾🦴🏆

The camera pans in on me, Smuckers, sitting regally at my desk in the Pawsome Pet Pharmacy, a place where “working like a dog” is less metaphor, more literal and, quite frankly, a badge of honor. I’m typing away, or at least giving the illusion thereof since, let’s face it, my paws are less than nimble on these keys.

“So, tell us, Smuckers, how do you feel about being Salesdog of the Month?” a voice behind the camera asks.

I glance up, my tail wagging at the recognition, “Well, it’s an honor really. It’s all about knowing what the customer wants. Treats for their ailment and maybe…just maybe, a side of chicken.”

The camera zooms in on the Salesdog of the Month plaque, my glossy black coat and kind eyes forever immortalized in the photo. Beneath it, a conspicuously placed rubber duck, the squeaker, my signature, and silent nod to the secret of my sales success.

As I strut towards Furrific Fried Chicken for lunch, my coworker and office gossip hound, Biscuit—the French Bulldog with the wrinkliest face and widest smile—sidles up to me. “Hey Smuckers, congrats on the award. You gonna celebrate?”

“Oh, you know it,” I reply, my voice modulating to the ‘we’re in the know’ tone. “All the chicken I can eat, and maybe a game of toss with the old rubber duck at Black Bulldog Bay. Keep it cool, keep it fun, you know?”

Lunch is a riot. We’re at our usual spot, tails thump-thumping on the floor, bowls of chicken in front of us and conversation flowing like the fountain drinks.

“Honestly,” I begin, revealing to my closest confidants, Baxter and Bailey, “the only thing missing in this canine utopia is Mom. But someday… we’ll have the biggest playdate of all.”

The camera catches me mid-sentence, a playful glint in my eye, and a somewhat pretentious nibble on a fried chicken wing; I don’t do messy eating on camera, my public image is at stake after all.

Back in the office, I paw through reports, finding a peculiar rise in citrus-flavored medicines. I wrinkle my nose in distaste and dictate to my assistant, “Mistoookes,” I drawl in a mock-serious tone, “mistakenly ordered by Mr. Whiskers no doubt for some bizarre cat obsession.”

Just then, a bumbling intern sets up a sprinkler system indoors because, according to the office manager, “The air is too dry.” Oh, the horror! The betrayal! Desks scatter, and administrative chaos ensues.

“CUT! Let’s not get too splashy, alright guys?” I bark out, despite knowing full well that this waterlogged drama is comedic gold for the mockumentary masses.

As the day winds down, the golden hour casts a serene glow across Western Husky Hill visible from my office window, reminiscent of Johnson’s Park, and I reflect on a day in the life here. I turned mundane into memorable, panic into punchlines. With each tail wag and mischievous antic, it’s clear Spencerville isn’t just a place—it’s a feeling, a promise, a little piece of legend crafted with love.

The camera pans out and I’m there, Smuckers, the soulful Black Lab with a silver tongue for sales and boundless heart for hijinks, signing off another remarkable day in the pet paradise that never sleeps.

The End.

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