Hey Mom and Dad,

Just wrapped up the Spencerville Scavenger Hunt and learned what it really means to grow up. It turns out, life’s one big game of fetch with wisdom! Between chasing clues and tail-chasing thoughts, I found that growing up is about carrying your pup spirit with you, even when you’re learning how to be a big dog in the world. I’ve collected more than just clues today—I’ve gathered moments like treats for the soul. Catch you on the flip side of the doggy door!

Big Sammy 🐾

Sunlight filtered through the clouds above Spencerville, casting dancing shadows over Black Bulldog Bay, and there I was, Sampson, with the same eager heart and a brindle ear waving like a flag of truce—or perhaps challenge. Whichever it was, I’d tackle it head-on. It’s what we bulldogs do best.

I lumbered along the sand, my heart pounding like the steady drum of a marching band. Adolescence, with its surge of growth and strength, tugged me toward a horizon gleaming with the glossy sheen of adulthood, yet I was still buoyed by the jovial tides of puppyhood. Life in Spencerville was a bridge between those worlds, and crossing it was a game of chase with the shadows of time.

Today was significant—it was the day the bulldogs from Black Bulldog Bay would venture to Lower Silver Siberian Summit for the great Spencerville Scavenger Hunt. It wasn’t just any juvenile romp; it was a rite of passage. And Fat Russell—stalwart, hefty, a mirror of my own spirit—wagged by my side. I could feel it in my jowls: this challenge would test the mettle I knew my body possessed but my youthful soul had yet to grasp.

“The world,” Fenway had told me once, “is a grand adventure, waiting of exploration, of truths to be unearthed by the bravest of snouts.” He was one to speak in riddles, that border collie sage, and I’d always nodded, pretending to understand. But today, I sensed the essence of his wisdom.

As we navigated the path toward the summit, I pondered, “What is it to ‘come of age’ in a place where age is as fluid as the sea?” It was a thought that chased its tail, round and round in my mind, never finding a resting spot. Every rustling bush, every whispered challenge from competing scavengers, opened another doorway into discovery.

We arrived at The Doggy Depot, where the scavenger hunt’s first clue awaited. “Listen to the wind,” it read, “and follow the whispers of the ages.” And so we listened, paws silent on the pavement, to the melodies spun by Spencerville’s zephyrs. “To the Howling Husky Hardware Store,” Russell barked, his breaths as deep and thoughtful as mine.

“Of course, tools forged by the wind,” I agreed, the taste of the hunt spicy on my tongue, far more enticing than any cookie—vanilla or otherwise.

In the hardware store, amidst the scents of new collars and the tang of rubber bones, we found the next clue, a riddle wrapped around a wrench. “Turn the bolt to the world you know, embrace the courage to let it go.” Ah, the tightness of its meaning played with me, and yet I felt a glint of certainty amidst the mist of confusion. Growing up meant letting go, didn’t it?

As we followed the breadcrumbs of clues, winding through the Pooch Playhouse, savoring the aroma at Fur Tacos and Pup-Tizers without faltering, I realized that this hunt was more than a game. It was life—unpredictable, exhilarating, sometimes as haunting as the vacuum’s roar, and yet as comforting as Marley’s snicker.

The final clue led us back to the heart of Black Bulldog Bay. “Stand where you’ve begun, underneath the setting sun, and find within the might to chase the tales into the night.”

I thumped down on the shores where my journey began, Fat Russell panting beside me, the day’s heat a tapestry of triumph. I had chewed on the bone of youth and emerged, I hoped, with a whisper of the truth. And as the sun sank into its own abyss, I knew that coming of age in Spencerville meant understanding a simple, profound truth:

We never truly leave our younger selves behind—we just learn to walk alongside them with increased wisdom, our brindle patches not just markings, but medallions of our storied lives. It was the growth in acknowledging every playful moment had its place, every loyal act painted a larger portrait, and I—Sampson of Spencerville—was an artist of my own becoming, ready to paint tomorrow with today’s brush.

The End.