Hey Mom,

Just saved Spencerville from a pack of escapee Veloci-Rottweilers – all in a day’s work for Lil Dot, the pint-sized hero! 😎 Managed it with flair, obviously. Who needs Dograssic Park when you live the adventure, right? Meet you at Tail Waggers for a gossip sesh later?

Hugs and head pats,
Diva Dot 🐾✨

I wake to the sensation of sunlight bathing my coat, a white brilliance that seems to coax my bones into acknowledging it’s indeed another day in Spencerville. I stretch, yawn—quite a production, really—and make my way toward the Spotted Red Beagle Beach. My little legs, steadfast pistons, are committed to forward motion—much like the ancient dog breeds of Dograssic Park.

The place is a spectacle of nostalgia; a trip back to the canine Cretaceous, had such a thing existed. Labrathors, Mastadonts, and the venerable Dino-dogs roam its grounds. Genetics, they claimed, had worked wonders, plucking traits from eons past like berries from a bush. But as with all berries, some were bound to be overripe.

Let me make this clear: I’m not your typical “sit and fetch” type. If given a choice between a well-tossed ball and a well-prepared chicken dinner, I’d choose the chicken, every time. So naturally, on this occasion, my interest lies with the ‘T-Rex Terrier’ snack kiosk over by the Cerberus Carousel—don’t get me started on the irony there.

As I saunter through the bustling streets, passing Pet Partners Pet Supplies where leashes from the Stone Age hang in the window, I smile at the tourists. They love this place—every single recreated cobblestone and hydrant. But me? I long for authenticity in my daily escapades.

My paws patter on the ground, a staccato rhythm that’s quickly drowned out by the pandemonium that bursts forth from the direction of Dograssic Park. Not again, I think. A sense of duty swells within me. Someone’s got to look into this, and who better than Lil Dot—the bulldog whose bravery is, at times, a source of personal inconvenience.

Approaching the park, I find a petrified Pugleosaurus—a genetically revamped pug with triceratops aspirations—galloping away from a flock of freed Veloci-Rottweilers. It would seem that once again, ambition had slipped the leash of foresight. The fine folks in the genetic wonder-kitchen have cooked up a calamity as easily as I overturn my water bowl.

“Keep it together, Dot,” I remind myself as I nudge closer, “just another typical Spencerville day.”

The Veloci-Rottweilers are fast, teeth glinting with each snap—not quite the majestic picture promised in the brochure, but breathtaking in their own, entirely-too-close for comfort kind of way. I employ my best tactical maneuver, ‘the unexpected distraction’. With a brisk, well-aimed run, I lure the pack away from the crowds and toward the Southern Golden Retriever River.

The sound of the roiling currents seems to sober them slightly. They haven’t seen water since their test tubes, no doubt. I lead them to Best in Show Photography, where surprises tend to be more of the photographic kind.

With the pack momentarily bemused by their reflections, I make my noble escape, not without a certain flourish. After all, one must maintain appearances.

Slipping out, I find Spencer and the gang—the usual suspects—ready to pounce on the problem, prompted by their own curiosity and a notable lack of anything better to do.

“We’ve got this, Lil Dot,” calls Spencer, always so sure of himself.

My pack and I, together with our herd of new friends, manage to lead the wayward Veloci-Rottweilers back into their compound. The gates clang shut, more by luck than judgment. It’s serendipity, really.

After the day’s tumult, Tail Waggers seems a slice of heaven. I plop down with a bowl of Yappy Yogurt. I’ll let the daring Spencer gather the accolades this time. My attention turns to the window with a whine of a vacuum cleaner in the distance—my arch-nemesis. The trials of the day fade as I envision my personal vendetta against the fiendish contraption.

Even in Spencerville, life can be a circus, but one learns to juggle.

“You’ve got quite the life, Lil Dot,” the old Bulldane mutters from the next table over.

I nod, a knowing gleam in my eye. “It’s a dograssic world, my friend,” I reply, with a wink and a crunch into my victory chicken.

The End.