Hey Dad! Just wanted to let you know that I’ve been a bit of a hero today—helped Laura find her lost bracelet and got Joe out of a sticky situation (hint: glue involved!). All in a dog’s day, right? 🐾

– Bub Bub

Well now, gather ’round y’all, let ol’ Russell tell ya a tale of bravery, and a touch of derring-do. You see, life in Spencerville might seem like a dog’s dreamland what with its almost perfect sunsets over Dalmatian Desert and the smell of corned beef waftin’ from Pooched Potatoes, but these are tryin’ times. We’re dealin’ with a menace that makes a vacuum cleaner look like a purrin’ kitten – zombies. Not just any zombies, mind ya, but doggone dog zombies.

Well, where do I start? I s’pose the beginning would be fine. I’m Russell, though some call me Fat Russell, Bub Bub, or even irv. Brindle-coated English Bulldog of stocky build with a personality as colorful as a doggie day in May. Loyal to a fault, playful as a young pup, brave as a lion, though a smidge stubborn, they say. I’m often seen takin’ charge of the Barklaggio Casino, but that’s a tale for another time—this here story ain’t about chips and bets; it’s about survival.

One crisp morning, I was sunbathin’ in my favorite spot by the ol’ barkin’ oak in Westie Woods, thinkin’ about my human Dad and missin’ him somethin’ fierce. You see, in Spencerville, we know we’ll be reunited with our folks one day, but till then, we make the best of it. I was contemplatin’ whether to take a quick nap or head over to Bone Appetit for a breakfast cheesesteak when I heard a rustlin’ that made my brindle fur stand on end. Not your regular squirrel-agitatin’-the-leaves rustlin’, but the low moan of a dog that had no business moanin’.

I stood up slow, every muscle in my stout body ready for action. And there he was, Caramel Clyde, an ol’ hound who preferred tug-of-war and rough-housin’ as much as I did. But somethin’ was wrong. His eyes were vacant, his bark hollow. And then he lunged, not out o’ playful intent but with a hunger that no frisbee would sate.

“Clyde!” I barked, backin’ up. “What’s gotten into ya?” But there was no response, just that same empty gaze.

Well, instincts kicked in, and faster than a terrier with his nose to the ground, I scrambled back towards the shops. The Snooty Snout Boutique and Spa for Paws had turned into outposts of defense; the pet fashionistas and their guard dogs were ready for battle with whatever they could muster—a sharpened chew toy here, a makeshift barricade there.

I skidded into The Groom Room, where Fenway, my bombastic buddy from Oklahoma, was already rallyin’ the troops. “We got a Code Bone-Rattler,” I panted. Fenway nodded gravely.

We mounted a defensive line near Silver Siberian Summit, usin’ the terrain to our advantage. Scouts reported more dog zombies shufflin’ from the direction of the pool—figures, they never liked a good swim, did they? We fortified our positions with rawhide barricades and braced ourselves.

The first wave came just as the sun dipped below the horizon. It was a sight to see, friends and neighbors turned into eerie shadows of themselves. But Fenway and I, we had a plan. “Remember, it’s the Frisbees and chewin’ bones they want,” I shouted. “Got to aim for the noggin’!”

It was a battle for the ages, let me tell ya. I felt the familiar tug of hope. My favorite Mugsy, the stuffed bulldog, wasn’t here to help, but I imagined his brave spirit beside me.

We fought valiantly, with the same fervor I’d put into rough-housin’ or pullin’ at Dad’s sleeve for a car ride. And by the time the moon hung high, we’d driven those ghouls back to where they crawled from, securing Spencerville once more.

As I trudged back to Barklaggio Casino, covered in grime and the sweet air of victory, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of longing for Dad. But in my heart, I knew that every cheesesteak and sunbathing session was just another page in this ongoing legend. Till then, I remain watchful, ever the brave and friendly English Bulldog, ready for whatever comes next.

And so it goes in Spencerville. A place where, though imperfect, each day with a doggone apocalypse tries to show us that perfection is in the journey, not just the waitin’. And trust me, in these paws, the journey is just gettin’ started.