Hey there, packmate!

Just wrapped up my “epic” prank on Sissy for snort-laughing at my tale of valor. All it took was a fluffed-up stick chase and a decoy picnic by Bulldog Bay. 😏 Sibling rivalry at its finest! We ended up sharing a laugh and a Milk Bone. Remember, in Spencerville, revenge is best served with a side of sibling love and a dash of mischief!

High-paws and tail wags,
Kooch 🐾

In the breathtaking, if somewhat peculiar, municipality of Spencerville, there was I, Kooch, the Brindle Mastiff, contemplating revenge. Oh yes, revenge – but not the sordid, toothy kind you might expect from creatures of our inclination. Oh no, my pernicious plan was of a character much more sophisticated. It was the sort of vengeance one reserves for their dearest sibling; it has all the gravity of a pillow fight and the deadliness of a tickle war.

It began, as many things do, on an afternoon that looked suspiciously like morning, at Bulldog Bay, where the brisket-flavored water would tempt the most devout vegetarian. I, in my usual contemplative dog paddle, was elaborating upon my scheme, and Sissy was having none of it. No, really; she was entirely oblivious, chasing her tail in that absurd way of hers that suggested she might succeed one day.

Our quarrel had been as trivial as an empty Milk Bone box. ‘Twas a single giggled snort that had set me off, a sound emitted by Sissy during what I had considered to be one of my most stirring narratives. It was a tale of courage, as I had once braved the backyard rainstorm to salvage a beloved tennis ball— a saga of Homeric proportion. And so, during our casual loitering by Bulldog Bay, I set my revenge with the elegance of a cat walking past a pile of dishes.

It was mid trot, while conversing with a rather dignified poodle who could balance a stack of biscuits on her nose, that I informed Sissy I’d seen an exemplary stick floating in the Southern Golden Retriever River. It was, I claimed, a stick of such magnitude that it begged to be retrieved. And off Sissy sprinted, tail wagging like a pendulum gone rogue.

As she splashed into the joyously warm water, I sidled up to The Fetching Deli (“fine dining without the dining fiend”, their motto), to order the specials for two. They knew us there – we were local celebrities of sort, known for our theatrics at the annual Spencerville Drama Festival (the less spoken about our rendition of Romeo and Juliette, the better).

Sissy returned, drenched but victorious, bearing a stick that could have doubled as a small tree, and we settled in for a picnic. The sun was shining, the birds were suspiciously harmonious, and in between Sissy’s exuberant bark about her riverine triumph and my inner howling laughter at my devious artistry, I handed her a Milk Bone, her eyes gleaming with familial affection.

“And that,” I told her with a solemn nudge, “is for taking the snort out of my epic saga.”

Sissy paused, an eloquent eyebrow raised in question. “This is what this is about? You mean this whole thing was a revenge plot?” She almost choked on her biscuit in disbelief.

“Oh, entirely,” I said with a grin wider than Bulldog Bay. “The deepest, most profound revenge plot there never was.”

We laughed then, with all the decorum of dogs who had just bested the deepest, darkest, postman-filled night. For in Spencerville, even something as ominous as revenge ends up with wagging tails and belly rubs on the shores of recycled meatloaf-scented beaches. This was our “day in the life” – the life of a dog named Kooch, and his trusty sidekick, Sissy.

Thus, as the profound canine philosopher once remarked, “Life is a bone; chew it before it chews you.” And chew it we did, every last scrumptious bit.

The End.