Hey Dad, heard about the move and wanted you to have something special for the new place. Sending Blue back with memories of our best times. Missing you but know you’ll keep a piece of me with you.

Love, Fat Russ

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It was another one of those gloriously carefree afternoons in Spencerville, a place where the traffic of time seemed to detour and take the scenic route. Russell wasn’t one for dramatics, but today held a peculiar storm of emotions that even he, in all his stout-hearted English Bulldog glory, couldn’t quite navigate.

Russell loitered around Cream Maltese Meadow, the bastion of tranquility, where blades of velvet grass invited you to roll around and forget your sorrows. He had just finished a riveting game of fetch with Squeako, his miniature basketball, when he saw Spencer and Fenway conversing near the giant oak.

“Russell, old chap, over here!” Spencer called out, his deep Southern drawl laced with a hint of urgency.

Russell waddled over, his short legs carrying him with familiar heft. Fenway, ever the giant with a passion for football, nudged Spencer. “Tell him, Spence. He’s gotta know.”

I caught their shared glances and felt a pang of unease. “What’s the commotion about?” I asked, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

“A letter came,” Spencer began, his wrinkled pug face looking more troubled than usual. “From your dad.”

Ah, my dad. Even in Spencerville, the thought of him warmed my heart and ached it simultaneously. “What’s it say?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Fenway took over, his voice steady. “Your dad’s moving to a new house, a new backyard, Russell. A place with no city noise but all the room you’d love. He’s hoping you’re happy here, but it sounds like he needs your old pal Blue.”

My ears perked up at Blue, my beloved frisbee. Memories of our endless tug-of-war games flashed before my eyes. That old torn-up disc hadn’t just been a toy; it was a piece of my soul. I swallowed hard. “What… what does he need it for?”

“He’s saying goodbye to his old life, needs something to hold onto, I reckon,” Fenway said, almost sorrowfully.

The news hit like a semi-truck. I’d been missing those lazy afternoons, yes, but I’d never been fully prepared for a new chapter to begin without those cherished parts of the past.

“Do you think he’ll be alright?” I asked, looking at Spencer’s wise eyes for some clarity, some reassurance.

Spencer sighed deeply, almost as if the air were heavy with answers. “There’s a thing ’bout dads, Russell. They need what they give—comfort, memories, love. Maybe Blue’s just his way of keeping a bit of you with him while you wait to see him again.”

The three of us sat there for an extended moment, letting the weight of the words intertwine with the tranquil air of Spencerville. I knew what I had to do.

By the time the sun began to set over Lower Golden Gate Gardens, I made my way to The Furry Friends Art Gallery. Silly, my sibling, was there showcasing some of our latest paw paintings.

“Hey, Silly,” I called, my voice trying to mask the underlying melancholy. Silly trotted over, her grey coat glistening under the gentle lighting.

“What’s up, big bro?”

After sharing the news, Silly’s eyes sparkled with understanding. “So, you’ll send Blue back?”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “He needs it more than I do.”

We spent a bit more time wandering around The Snooty Snout Boutique, as if trying to prolong the inevitable. And then, a plan hatched. I’d send Blue back with a letter, a keepsake, something to remind dad of not just the frisbee games but the lazy cuddles, the cheesesteaks shared—every bit of who I was.

Finally, as dusk settled, Spencer, Fenway, and I stood by the Drained Fountain in Yellow Tan Dalmatian Desert. Silly handed Blue to me, and I felt a lump rise in my throat.

“You ready?” Spencer asked.

“As I’ll ever be.”

With Blue securely bound with the letter, we sent it off with Pigeon Pete, the fastest carrier in all of Spencerville. As we watched Pete flap his wings into the horizon, I felt something lift in my chest—part sorrow, part solace.

The night wrapped around us like a familiar blanket, and I knew my dad would be okay. Maybe the dogs of Spencerville prepare us not just to endure but to embrace our next journeys, whatever they might be.

That night, as I curled up under the stars with Fenway on one side and Silly on the other, I understood something fundamental. We’re all bound by love and memories, and somewhere, somehow, both would keep us warm until we could wag our tails together once more.