Hey Mom,

Just played the part of Spencerville’s reluctant socialite at the hoity-toity Bark Shak soiree in Gilly’s honor, snubbed carrots, upheld canine aristocracy, and ended up giving a toast that warmed hearts. Miss you more than a sunbeam on a frosty morning. Signing off from existential doggy drama — your affectionate Googly Moogly.

XOXO,
Griffin

If having your snout pressed against the cold windowpane of existential ennui while the rest of Spencerville partook in frivolous pursuits was a sport, then, dear reader, I was its unwilling champion.

The sun sprawled lazily over the horizon as I awaited the return of—let’s call her Lady Mother—from yet another of her philanthropic excursions. The cause du jour? “Rescuing Retriever Rowing Club from the Recessions of Repose,” or some such flowery endeavor.

White Westie Woods, the sun-dappled retreat to the west, beckoned like a siren’s call, but my noble derrière remained anchored to the luxuriant divan near the Orb of Warmth (the heater, though I abhor the vulgar informality). Here, in the tenebrous yet comforting solitude of my personal quarters, I was free to muse over my carefully curated collection of discontentments.

“Gryphon old sport, you’ve the countenance of a hound that’s misplaced its bone,” chided Emerson, the long-faced Basset Hound butler as he entered, bearing what appeared to be an invite in his jowls.

“Affliction takes many forms, Emerson, and all bear the scent of carrots—my culinary nemesis,” I replied, not bothering to avert my eyes from the vexing emptiness where Lady Mother’s figure was not.

He proffered the envelope with solemnity. “Invitation to The Bark Shak’s annual soirée, sir. The crème de la crème of canine society shall attend. Fancy a peruse?”

Alas, curiosity is a leash that tugs even the most stoic of spirits. I unfolded the message, deigning to grace it with a glance. “It appears I shall make an appearance, if only to avoid the indignity of being the talk of the town for my absence.”

The eve of said soirée found me prim and prepped, though none would discern my inner turmoil. Just as I was luxuriating in the melodic whispers of the Southern Golden Retriever River, the clinking of tableware and the merry laughter of peers—in exquisite mimicry of the grand banquets of nobility I had seen leafed through the annals—at Paws-A-Latte and K9 Kebabs, tragedy struck as a familiar ghost drifted before me.

Gilly, the late and great, his rambunctiousness transmuted into legend, his playful pug essence enshrined in the inaugural toast of the evening. His absence left a void as tangible as the now vacant spot by the hearth we once shared. It was in this introspection that I found my purpose amidst the silver-trayed society.

“For Gilly,” I intoned, my voice rising above the hubbub, “a pug of unparalleled zest, whose love for steak bones was only rivaled by his love for life!” Glasses met; approval murmured.

I navigated the remainder of the aristocratic spectacle with what could only be described as grace under pressure, excluding, of course, the ear-cleaning demonstration by The Pampered Pooch Salon—barbaric!

Returning home, weary yet content, I snuggled into my bed with the weathered purple octopus, the only memento I deemed necessary. For in the great Spencerville above, I knew Gilly frolicked with newfound friends, sharing in the great chase until our paths crossed once more in that grand Fenland in the sky.

As I closed my eyes to the soft chorus of the night’s embrace, I resolved that life—much like a well-chewed bone—was to be savored with gusto, for the marrow of memories was all that remained once the feast was done.

We are but hounds, each sniffing our way through this illustrious maze, called existence, awaiting the time when our paws finally carry us home to the comfort of those who marked our hearts most.

The End.