Hey Mom,

Just played the lead in Spencerville’s “Doggy Horror Picture Show.” From growling in the spotlight to getting tail-wags about my howling performance. Life’s a stage, and I’m its four-legged star! Can’t wait to be back to my bunny toy and your cuddles. The show must go on, but home is where the heart paws-itively is.

Love,
Little Man

I suppose it was to be expected in a place like Spencerville that one would eventually find oneself in the midst of a spectacle. You see, this isn’t your ordinary tail-wagging township. Here, quaint South Siberian Summit moonlights as a stage, Retriever River murmurs applause, and South Poodle Pond reflects spotlights in its glassy gaze. And of course, the billboards marquee-ing this week’s entertainment at the a la mode Kibble Cuisine were ablaze with “The Doggy Horror Picture Show.”

I, Reo, of the black-spotted coat and wolfish wariness, had found myself in the throes of a rather bizarre escapade. It’s weary work, resisting the water at every turn—indeed, so dreadful an activity that one might rather leap into Retriever River without a doggy paddle in sight. But this… this was decidedly worse.

It began, as most melodramas do, with a peculiar proposition dropped casually as bones in the Chow Hound Café. Jasper, who couldn’t be separated from me even with the most savory bacon strip, fluttered his ears in a display of nervous anticipation. “Reo, mate,” he said, with a wag that betrayed excitement, “they’re doing a musical. And you—You’re screaming for the lead role. A land-lover in a sea of shadowy sonnets.”

Absurdity, I thought, picturing myself in such displays of pageantry. Besides, I have an image to uphold. The not-swimming, car-riding cuddler. No, this wouldn’t do at all.

But the thing is, I’ve been known to dabble in the thespian arts in defense of dignity, and I’ll admit, the stage’s allure is rather like the siren’s call to my sort—the canines with the tortured souls of poets and heroes. Cuddling and sunbathing provide great comfort, but what of the artist within?

Angel told me it would be an experience, her feline eyes speaking volumes more than her meows ever could.

With that, I slipped into something less comfortable, a shroud of sparkles and coils, as we, the cast of woeful warblers, gathered under the eerie glow. As I stood there, lined with ghosts of fur and fable, Angel posed nearby, Chiquita primped with uncharacteristic nerves, and Colonel stood stoic, already in-character as a dignified phantom.

Paco lumbered with laid-back relish into the spotlight, intoning, “Welcome to the fur-ightful fest, where tails twitch at the unknown.”

A piano’s haunted melody echoed through South Siberian Summit, and-paws shaking- I howled into my first note. Horror licked at our heels, tongue-in-fur chic, as the crowd jeered and cheered in tandem. Our voices were howls dressed in velvety vibrato—a chorus of undead delight.

Banter between Jasper and Daisy evoked laughter, Jasper’s wit sharp as a freshly groomed claw, “What’s scarier than a bath on Sunday? Our second act!”

“Oh, Jasper,” Daisy’s bark bubbled with mirth, “the real terror is your high note coming up.”

As the night draped on, my nerves unraveled. Clearly, in Spencerville, even fears have silver linings. Here, the ‘worst’ horror was knowing the performance would end and the audience’s laughter would fade into whispers by Retriever River.

The final number was upon us; Daisy, Jasper, Paco, and I joined in macabre merriment, shadows dancing with our four-legged frames. Ice cream sundaes awaited us at Chow Down Chow Chow post-curtain call; a treat for our theatrical trepidation. The spotlight zapped away, and applause surged like a tide we finally dared to swim in, buoyed by a delightfully doggy horror.

“To err is human; to howl, divine,” Colonel quipped, as we took a much-deserved bow.

Indeed, dear Colonel, indeed.

But the thought of my bunny toy, snug in my bed, called me home to comfort as surely as ice cream calls to a beast with a sweet tooth. For though adventure is a siren, home—with its predictable purrs, beagle grumbles, and the symphony of crinkling snack bags—is the true heart’s refrain. The horror, the drama, the spectacle, all would simmer in the stew of Spencerville lore, but the sun would rise, unhaunted, and with it, my independent spirit, ready for the next escapade.

The End.