Hey Dad, just a little update from your favorite furry friend! I’ve been busy sniffing out trouble and wagging my way into everyone’s hearts in the neighborhood. Found a missing slipper, made a new friend named Buster, and even scared off that pesky squirrel again. Life’s good and tails are wagging! Love, Fat Russell 🐾

### Episode 1: The Day of the Tiny Terror

Picture this, if you will: the sun was sunbathing right along with me—though I dare say it wasn’t as dapper as this Brindle English Bulldog sprawling on a patch of grass—and all seemed right with the world, or what we in Spencerville know as the Great Beyond. A place where the beer is warm, the cheesesteaks are toasted to perfection, and life’s a lark. Then, not two Frisbee throws away, a newspaper-beast scuttled across Upper Black Bulldog Bay.

Now, I’m not one to partake in sensational news. After all, a dog of distinguished tastes (never mind my affinity for corned beef and all things meaty) prefers his tales well-told. So, I decided to pay no mind to this oddity, “The Barking Dead” edition, and carried on with my sunbathing. But the whispers—like the rustling of uncoiled leashes—persisted from Whiskers and Wings all the way to Fetch! Toys and Treats: “Canine Zombies.” Surely fanciful nonsense meant to ruffle a Bulldog’s fur, or so I thought.

“You must’ve heard, Russell old chap!” exclaimed Fenway, my bombastic horizontal pal from Oklahoma. Not the least bit perturbed by the alarming title, he swung by with a slobbery tennis ball, never shy of mixing business with his trademark Oklahoma charm. “A rare occurrence indeed—posthumous exuberance of the four-legged kind!”

Now I am a Bulldog of bravery (albeit with a splash of undeniable stubbornness), so I dashed to The Cat’s Meow Sushi to gather what could only be called a “collective bark.” You see, we take these things relatively seriously here in Spencerville. We’re no ordinary township; nay, we’re the epitome of a barksome collective, a veritable utopia for pets beyond the rainbow leash.

There I met Barkley the Beagle, an authority on all things cryptic. As we nosed through teeming platters of sushi rolls—fish and rice, the culinary nemesis of dogs everywhere—we pawed at the absurd idea of the undead.

“Bub Bub,” Barkley chimed with a haughty sniff, using one of my many nicknames that seems to have astonishing staying power. “Think not in terms of absurdity, but in what we can gain from this scandalous saga.”

I pondered the notion, plopped myself on a cushion (complementary for patrons, bless The Cat’s Meow), and decided such narratives deserved a place at our very own Barklaggio Casino. Surmise if you will—a game of epic proportions: “Zombie vs. Hound – The Afterlife Edition!” Imagine the enormity. I wager—taking irresponsibly large bites of raw tuna amidst my excitement— that our games could be the talk of the township.

“Michael, my steadfast caretaker,” I mused aloud, remembering Dad’s valiant deeds in my life. “He would love a tale where I save the day!” For he knew all too well my love for Frisbees and Mugsy, the eternal stuffed bully of a friend.

And so, with a tug-of-war spirit mixed with a lens for hilarity and friendship, we, Fat Russell and Fenway, resolved to organize a plucky ensemble for further investigation. After all, barking dead or not, Spencerville’s lore awaits no furry friend who chooses fencing over fetch.

To the Southern Golden Retriever River, we’re off. Adventure waits for no wandering woofer!