Hey Dad,

Fought off an alien veggie invasion at Boxer Beach today, brokered peace with a squeaky toy (they know our weaknesses), and still had time for a game of Frisbee. Even interstellar guests can’t mess with my routine. Spencerville remains my turf.

Catch you at dinner. 🐾

Brutus Bulldog

The morning rose over Spencerville like a warm biscuit in an oven—which I guess makes me the blob of butter slowly melting into the scenery—and I, Brutus Bulldog, was ready to seize the day, Frisbee clamped firmly in my jaws. Little did I know, my usual frolics were about to be upstaged by something entirely out of this world, and I’d have to put my stubborn streak to the ultimate test.

As I shuffled my sturdy frame—part adorable, part tank—down to Boxer Beach for my morning Patrol & Sniff, something felt off. It wasn’t the way the seagulls squawked, with their usual disdain for any creature bound by gravity, nor was it the unnerving cleanliness of The Groom Room, which I passed, rolling my eyes—as one of my admirable traits is my disdain for unnecessary pampering.

No, the bizarreness of the day hit me like a thrown bone when I noticed that wacky light show above Greyhound Grove. Those lights couldn’t be from Fetch-N-Bites’ neon sign; even they wouldn’t host a rave before noon.

Suddenly, lettuce (the audacity) cascaded down from the sky. While other canine citizens dodged and dissected these leafy projectiles with glee, I held my ground with a suitable scowl, unamused, a lone bulldog against the veggie apocalypse. There’s a reason my bowl is a no-salad zone, and I intended to keep it that way.

And then, they landed—aliens, that is. In the middle of Labradoodle Lake, their craft plopped down with a splash, completely ignorant of local boating regulations. Out they came, smaller than expected, their eyes wide with the typical naiveté of tourists. You might think I’d have barked up a storm, but I had a Frisbee to think about, and these intergalactic visitors weren’t even worth the wag of my tail.

They clearly hadn’t done their homework, these invaders, because nobody causes a stir in Spencerville without offering at least a treat or a butt scratch in exchange. They mumbled apologies—languages never barrier for us perceptive types—and waved what could only be described as the universal white flag: a squeaky toy of such irresistible quality that it temporarily united us residents in mutual admiration.

Now, you’ve got to understand, bonding over toys is one thing—Rocky gets that—but I didn’t trust these slimy, not-quite-dogs. Not one bit. My days are filled with sniffing, contemplating, and the occasional tug-of-war, not interplanetary diplomacy. Still, as custodian of the peace, and with nothing better to do before dinner, I indulged their presence, showing them around Spencerville with a certain stoic grace.

We explored The Snooty Snout Boutique, where I plainly informed them that no species with their lack of fur required garments of the Boutique’s caliber. In The Fetching Deli, they tried to impress me with their synthesized Bow Wow Burgers, which admittedly scored some points—in a pure culinary sense, of course. Companionship, however uneasy, had always been paramount over my solitude, after all.

By dusk, they were gone, as abruptly as they had arrived, leaving behind only memories and a distinct smell that The Groom Room could hopefully extract from my coat. Their visit was a scratch on the surface of my otherwise routine life. But if I may say so, it was the most exciting thing that had happened since Caesar declared war on the mirror—disturbing weeks, those were.

As the stars twinkled into existence overhead, Spencerville settled once more into its comforting rhythm. I found myself pondering the cosmic ballet that had unfolded. Despite it all, between nap, snack, and next morning’s patrol, I knew one thing: the universe itself could unfurl before me, but as long as there’s a Frisbee at paws’ length, and Rocky by my side, Brutus Bulldog remains, unshakably, at the heart of his own story.

The End.