Hey Mom! You’ll never believe the day we had—one minute I’m playing with Buster and Mia, the next we’re whisked away to a deserted island through a weird, enchanted tunnel near Spence Creek! We found hidden treasures, built a shelter, and even had a mini Robinson Crusoe adventure! But don’t worry, my trusty nose led us back home. Spencerville never felt so sweet. Love ya!

– Lambeau

It was another gorgeous day in Spencerville, the kind that makes you feel like you’re walking on sunshine. I’d spent the morning romping around Cream Maltese Meadow with Buster, my best friend in the world who happens to be a buttery-soft Golden Retriever with the gentleness of a cloud made of marshmallows. Mia, our sprightly little Cocker Spaniel, had popped in and out of the tall grass like a joyful game of Whac-A-Mole.

The day started like any other, until things took an unexpected turn. We decided to investigate a mysterious scent that wafted in from the edge of Spence Creek. It smelled like adventure wrapped in a steak slice, and honestly, how could I resist that?

“Oh, this smells amazing! Let’s check it out,” Buster barked, his coat glowing in the sunlight, almost as if heralding some divine intervention.

“Yeah, come on, Lambeau! What are we waiting for?” Mia chimed in, her ears flopping as she bounced on her paws.

We followed the scent, noses to the ground, until we reached a hidden clearing near Spence Creek. The grass grew tall and wild, and the bunnies had, predictably, initiated a game of impromptu hide and seek. Normally, this was my paradise, a furry slice of heaven. But today, the clearing seemed different, enchanted even. And I don’t mean like Disney-animated-forest enchanted; I mean more like slightly-menacing-French-bistro enchanted.

There, near the creek’s edge, we found a strange contraption made of old tennis balls and sticks. Intrigued, I nudged my favorite, tattered tennis ball into the structure. The ground beneath us shifted. Before we knew it, we were tumbling through a tunnel of roots and soil, whisked away like leaves in a gust of wind.

We landed on a sandy beach, waves lapping at the shore and seagulls squawking overhead, looking far too judgmental for birds that eat garbage.

“Whoa, where are we?” Mia wondered aloud, stretching her paws and shaking off the sand.

“Looks like a deserted island, but this doesn’t make any sense!” Buster exclaimed, tail wagging uncertainly.

“Well, nowhere but up from here. At least we still have each other. Shall we explore?” I said, trying to channel my inner explorer even as my heart pounded with curiosity and mild panic.

Venturing into the island’s interior, we quickly realized this place held its own dangers and delights. There were no restaurants like Doggy Delight or Pup-Peroni to grab a quick bite. No shops like The Pooch Playhouse or Canine Couture Clothing for our daily needs. We found a spot shaded by palm trees and decided to call it “Collie Canyon Junior.” Not nearly as majestic as the real Collie Canyon, but it would do.

Buster, with all the finesse of a puppy crossing an ice rink, tripped over a piece of driftwood but promptly turned it into a game of “how many times can you pounce on it before it yields?”

Mia ran around the makeshift campsite, collecting sticks and leaves as if she was Marie Kondo reorganizing her joy. “When life gives you sticks, make a spectacularly cozy nest!” she chirped with a tail wag.

By afternoon, survival instincts had kicked in. Buster and Mia took to foraging. Mia found berries that smelled surprisingly non-toxic, and Buster uncovered a buried cache of animal bones. Meanwhile, I did what I do best: sniffing out hidden treasures. When I found an old tennis ball nestled in a hollow tree, my heart soared with inexplicable joy. I tossed it in the air with wild abandon, thrilling in the chase despite our precarious situation.

Evenings were peaceful. We huddled together, our fur brushing up against each other as the stars blanketed the sky. We missed Spencerville, our mom, and the mouth-watering steaks from Bark ‘n’ Roll. But as we lay there, the bond between us grew even stronger. The unspoken promise that we’d find our way home hung in the air like the scent of impending rain—a promise we all believed in wholeheartedly.

As days turned into weeks, our little pack adapted to island life. Mia became our resident botanist, identifying edible plants with the precision of a Michelin-star chef. Buster’s strength made him the perfect candidate for constructing shelters and exploring the island’s perimeters. And me? Well, I became the unspoken leader, guiding our adventures with a nose that never failed to find safety—and maybe a hidden snack or two. Just no cucumbers, please. One bite of those and my taste buds would rather experience a dentist’s drill.

One evening, just as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the world in shades of orange and pink, a familiar scent curled into my nostrils. It smelled like home—the earthy scent of Spencerville mingled with the undertone of my tennis ball, safely stashed back at Spence Creek.

“Guys, I think I’ve found our way home!” I barked with uncontainable excitement.

We followed my nose through a maze of palm fronds and sandy paths, eventually finding another tunnel, this one guarded by that same strange tennis-ball structure. We leaped in without hesitation, hearts thumping in unison.

Tumbling back into Spencerville, we landed in the familiar tall grass of our favorite hidden clearing by Spence Creek. My heart swelled with gratitude and joy as we barked and wagged with wild abandon.

Spencerville was our home, our paradise, and no deserted island could compare. As we trotted back to town, through Cream Maltese Meadow and past the warm lights of Doggy Delight, I knew we were back where we belonged.

Together, as a pack. Forever.

The End.