Hey Dad,

You won’t believe the tail-wagging saga I had in Spencerville—turned into a hero saving the day from magical chaos with dragons, griffins, and unicorns, all while playing an epic game of fetch. Now I’m king of the doggone mountain. Consider your boy a legend in the making!

With adventure in his paw,
Perce 🐾

Yeah, it was a truth universally acknowledged—if you had the right kind of ears—that Spencerville wasn’t your average run-of-the-mill kind of place. If fate had dealt you the final hand in the mortal world, and you happened to be of the canine variety, you’d wake up here, in this dog’s paradise, where the streets were paved with fire hydrant dreams and every squirrel was just slow enough to tease that savage pulse of the hunt.

I’m Percy. My fur? Black, white, and tan—a trifecta of sleek contrast. My muscles? Well, they tell stories of mountains scaled and holes impressively dug. I’m a sight to behold and don’t you forget it.

But let’s get to the meat of it. Enough doggone introductions.

It was an ordinary day in Spencerville, or as ordinary as it gets around here, I suppose. I woke to the smell of sizzling bacon from the Bow Wow Bistro, which was as close to my own personal idea of a sunrise as it ever got. I leapt from my bed – or what passed for a bed when you’re a dog with a penchant for luxury – and galloped toward Cream Maltese Meadow, racing past The Pooch Playhouse and The Pawfect Training Center.

The fragrance of magic that hung in the air got thicker as I ran, tingling my snout with the zesty promise of enchantment and upheaval. You see, in Spencerville, the magic is as real as the fur on your back—only slightly less tangible and definitely more tricksy.

I got to the Meadow, the blades of grass glistening with dew like little green sorcerers, and there it was. Huge, towering, casting a shadow that could swallow the sun: Silver Siberian Summit. It would make your tail stiffen with awe, I tell ya.

Suddenly, the ground beneath me burgeoned with malicious intent, and in a thunderous rumble, the Meadow transformed. Mountains sprung up where none stood before, trees mushroomed to cloud-busting heights, and a once-peaceful brook turned into a churning, frothy monster eager to swallow anything furry and four-legged.

“Looks like we’re not in Spencerville anymore,” I muttered to myself, since talking to oneself is probably the beginning of wisdom, or madness, depending on who’s doing the talking.

And wouldn’t you know it, mythical creatures came out of the woodwork—or rather, the newly formed woods. Dragons with scales glinting like the carelessly tossed coins of a billionaire, griffins with talons that could rival the shears at Woof and Whisker Wellness Center, and a convocation of the fluffiest yet potentially most diabolical unicorns this side of the afterlife.

Now, I didn’t come to Spencerville carrying a hero’s complex. I just liked the mountains and a good game of fetch. But, dear biped reader, I’m nothing if not adaptable.

The first rule of Spencerville, much like the first rule of any self-respecting canine, is to roll with the punches. The punches today being the literal earth-shattering transformation of my Meadow and the very real fact that those creatures looked hungry for something besides Pepperoni Pizza.

So, brace yourself. The tale of Percy, the Entlebucher Mountain Dog, a notable digger and swimmer, but now apparently a creature-tamer and fantasy-hero-wannabe, begins thusly:

I started with the dragon, mainly because a fiery breath is hard to ignore. I stood my ground and growled, every inch the furry guardian. And, I like to think, there was a moment of mutual respect, one beast to another.

“Alright, you scaly behemoth,” I barked, my voice hopefully hiding the fact that I loathe vacuum cleaners and delivery people with a passion.

The dragon lowered its gargantuan head, smoke weaving from its nostrils like sinister incense. “Dog,” it rumbled, “why do you not flee like the rest?”

I met its glowing ember eyes. “Because, this dog,” I thrust a paw against my chest, “has a bone to pick with whoever rearranged my favorite digging spot into your new playpen.”

The dragon chuckled. A mountain almost crumbled. “Well spoken, little dog. But what challenge might you offer?”

I pondered, a strategy forming in my mind like a cat sneaking onto a forbidden countertop. “A game,” I said. “Fetch. Your treasure for a nice, juicy steak from the hidden stash at The Bark Shak.”

The dragon considered this, its interest piqued.

To cut a long story short, without overstepping the bounds of believable fantasy—even in Spencerville—I played that dragon. I played fetch until the treasure was ours, the creatures became friends, and the Summit was slightly less menacing.

In the end, I sat atop the highest peak with a dragon, a hedge of griffins, and one very smug unicorn, all tired from playing, and I surveyed my land, Spencerville, with a sense of duty well-performed.

I might miss my dad, but there’s work to be done here, adventures to be had. And this dog, this Percy, might just be the furry overlord this new, magical piece of Spencerville needs while I wait.

But let’s keep that between us, shall we? For a legend is always better as a shared secret, whispered on the wind, ever-changing, never-ending. Now, who’s up for another round?

The End.