Hey Mom & Dad, just sniffed out a new adventure! Helped a lost kitten find its way home, taught the neighborhood pups a new trick, and even managed to charm Mrs. Jenkins out of an extra treat. Life’s pawsitively grand! Hugs & wags, Big Sammy 🐾

I don’t remember much about how I got to Spencerville, just a sudden whoosh, a flash, and the rattle of a peculiar box—a shiny one, speckled with paw-prints and ridiculously complex doodles, that you shouldn’t sniff around if you’ve got a flimsy sense of reality. I suppose my old caretaker might’ve found it buried under some forgotten place after one of those dreadful spring cleanings I was never fond of. My name is Sherry Dot, but if you’re really a chum, you’ll call me Sampson, or if you’re feeling exceptionally chummy, Sammy or Big Sammy.

Not long after arriving, I realized Spencerville is the kind of ‘nearly perfect’ that suspiciously lacks a single flaw. You’d think they dipped the whole town in vanilla cookie batter—my favorite, by the way. Every street corner boasts sparkling grass where a brindle and white bulldog like me can frolic, though it’s drip-dry, so none of that horrid wetness stays in your paws if it rains.

Drifting through the Golden Gate Gardens, I figured out rather quickly that this place was very much ‘alive’ for being what it is. An interesting mix of pet sociology—we’ve got our Greyhound Grove dwellers who perpetually dawdle about, and the Lower Dalmatian Desert crowd who insists on their sunbathing, even if it depletes their water bowls.

And just when my belly growled, I stumbled upon The Bark Shak. Picture a paradise of chicken cooked to perfection, minus the wretched pretzels or bananas some seemed to fancy. I navigated away from a downright ferocious fellow who scoffed at vanilla cookies—blasphemy. My regular haunt here is Bark ‘n’ Roll; its name alone makes it an ideal retreat for someone with an ear for rock.

There is a unique kind of demonic joy in this land. Some say it echoes that mysterious puzzle box’s influence—a subtle tug of unfathomable chaos amongst the bliss. But isn’t that what life is—a tangle of chew toys squeaking their havoc?

I made fast friends at Waggle n’ Wok. That’s where I encountered Fat Russell, a hefty English bulldog with a bark like thunder and a tender heart the size of Greyhound Grove. Together, we’d engage in a vicious yet jovial sport: snatch-and-pop—bouncing a basketball till it yields a satisfying pop.

One can be quite occupied here with activities and the ever-stubborn community of companions. It’s akin to the vigorous car rides I’d once dramatically feigned faintness to snag the front seat. Hence, Spencerville seems bustled with bright recollections of warm backyard afternoons, almost transcendental strolls in parks, and boisterous rough-housing absent the don’t-you-dare voice of mother inquiring about another popped ball.

But inevitably, the vibrancy of this utopia still pulses with the soft undertone of yearning—a distant symphony of my old life, which, though woeful in its conclusion, was not without laughter or loyal adventures. I know that I’m waiting. Every tennis ball catch and every new day renew the anticipation of reunion with mom-and-dad. No vacuum, vet, or singular lonely echo in this realm will sway me from that path.

And should anyone ever dare fiddle with the riddle of that box again, hoping to uncover whatever whimsical, canine-laden secrets it holds—well, here, I will remain until fate hands me my leash back. At least, with a stomach full of chicken and cookies.