Hey Mom,

Last night got wild! Georgia and I turned into ghostbusters at Pup-Peroni after dark. Lots of spooky howls and spectral pups. All’s well now, though. Spooky vibes just made my tail wag harder today! More deets when I see you.

Hugs and paw-bumps,
Maddie 🐾😘

I remember it was a strange evening, the fog resting over the Silver Siberian Summit like a heavy, fleece blanket thrown by a weary giant. Not that giants exist in Spencerville—at least none that I’ve sniffed out on my daily romps—but let me tell you, if they did, they’d be as gentle as the soft breeze that ruffles my ears, for Spencerville is a place of joy and eternal play.

There I was, Maddie—with the kind of fur that often had me mistaken for a walking, wagging confection—contemplating my next delightful mischief. I’d teamed up with Georgia, as usual. That spritely Spaniel with the frolicsome step could out-dash a squirrel on energy drinks. We were parading down to Collie Canyon when the familiar scents took on a strange twinge.

You see, in Spencerville, the scent of adventure is as common as the yawn of a sleepy pup; however, this particular musk was something unfamiliar, and it tickled the back of my snout with the distinct cadence of intrigue and, dare I say—apprehension.

A shiver wiggled its unwelcome way down my spine like a rogue wave crashing into my usual shore of serenity. Given the setting sun’s soft glow that barely pierced the fog, the onset of an eerie feeling was not altogether unfounded.

Georgia must have felt it too, for her usual trot had eased into a skittish tiptoe, ears pitched forward like satellite dishes tuning into an otherworldly broadcast.

“Ever been to Pup-Peroni after dark, Maddie?” Georgia’s words were as tentative as a cat on a hot tin roof.

I hadn’t. The joint was a spot of bustling comaraderie by day, warm and inviting as a fireside nap. But at night, the neon sign flickered like the greasy grin of a mischievous imp, illuminating the dark facade of the restaurant.

Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it also compelled two canines to press their noses against the glass doors that evening.

“The Bone Appetit wouldn’t have these shadows,” I mumbled to Georgia, my breath fogging up the glass. My playful frolics with tennis balls and my adoration for our human parents seemed a world away.

As we peered into the blackness, the flickering neon sign reflected in Georgia’s wide eyes—times two, times three—each a minuscule, squirming worm of luminescence, painting her gaze with an eerie, supernatural aura.

Suddenly, the air was split by a howl—not the kind borne of joy or the summons to dinner, but a mournful wail that felt as though it emanated from the very bowels of Spencerville.

I could feel my heartbeat drumming a sinister rhythm, and it resonated within the silent streets. Even the cheerful jingle of the Furry Friends Art Gallery’s wind chimes sounded like a distant, demented giggle.

“Maybe we should go back,” suggested Georgia, her voice a brittle leaf carried on an autumnal gust.

Yet, we stood rooted.

For what felt like an eternity, we remained still, until the darkness oozed out from the cracks of Pup-Peroni, a shadow stretching—a tangible chill that wanted to envelop us in its cold embrace. And then, as if compelled by an unknown force, the door creaked open.

The rest of that night was a blur of spectral visions—a canine imagination is a wondrous thing; it turns shadow into substance, and the wind into whispers. The ethereal figures of long-lost pups prancing around empty bowls, and the phantasmal wag of tails from a time when our parents were still within sniffing distance.

I don’t frighten easily—I’m Maddie, after all, with a spirit as buoyant as sunlit ripples on a pool. But I’ll confess, that night in Spencerville, nestled in the shroud of fog and confronted by the peculiar haunts of Pup-Peroni, I discovered a shade of darkness that could make even the most playful of labs long for daylight.

In time, the dawn did come with its warm, reassuring kiss. The spectral encounters retreated into the realm of misty memory, and Spencerville returned to its state of near-perfect bliss.

With a game of fetch awaiting and the cozy prospect of a Waggle n’ Wok brunch, Georgia and I trotted away from the haunts of the night, our bond fortified by shared supernatural shivers. And so the legend grew, a story to be unfurled with each retelling, each version paw-printed with new shades of terror and delight—an enduring narrative in the town where loyal pets roam, until reunion’s light beckons them home.

The End.