Hey Mom, just wanted to let you know I had a tail-wagging time leading my two-legged pals through the big backyard adventure. Managed to sniff out the hidden treasure and keep everyone’s spirits high with my epic zoomies. All in a day’s work for your loyal sidekick! Love, Wriggles 🐾

Well now, dear reader, let me tell you a tale, and not just any tale but one from the pawed perspective of a humble mixed-breed hero, which I fancy myself to be. My name is Wrigley, known in some circles as Wrigley Roo or, on an especially mischievous day, Marmaduke. I’m tall, with a mostly brown body, a white chest fashioned like a formal dinner jacket, and a black snout that’s considerably good at sniffing out pizza at fifty paces. You can spot me by my giddy smile and my floppy ears that bounce around like they’ve got a mind of their own.

Spencerville, now that’s where I find myself these fine eternal days—a place where the furry and fabulous frolic free, waiting until our people come join our ranks. I’d call it perfect, but I ain’t met the dog yet who wouldn’t miss his family a smidge, even when rampaging in White Westie Woods or chowing down at The Bark Shak.

Now, let’s get to the grit of this tale. One sunny afternoon, I was savoring my sunbeam, stretched out longer than a summer’s day on the porch of Bark and Bites. My floppy ears twitched to the tune of distant giggles from Greyhound Grove, when it hit me like a car ride downhill—trouble was brewing. It was none other than the dreaded villain known as the Bath Master, a sinister fellow with a penchant for lathering up every four-legged creature in sight.

“Hey Wriggles, you smell that?” said Glennie, my houndy chum, poking her joyful nose into my sunbeam zone, her eyes as alarmed as mine. I didn’t need to ask what. Tub thuds echoed through Golden Gate Gardens.

A feeling of purpose washed over me, stronger than the call of peanut butter on a winter’s day. I pawed at my yellow duck for luck, then sprung toward the scene with my band of furry heroes right behind. Camden and Rusty barked maneuvers, and we skidded onto the scene slicker than a Kong toy after a good drenching.

There he stood, the Bath Master. Bubbles filled the air like some grotesque rainbow. But we weren’t panicked; nope, we had a foolproof plan—laughter. “Betcha can’t catch us,” I hollered with all the playfulness I could muster. With a loyal heart, intelligent mind, and an independent streak that could rival the best, we raced circles around ol’ Bubbles, turning his plan to sudsy despair.

The Bath Master splashed and whooped, trying to wrangle us together. At that moment, genius struck, like it always does when you’re surrounded by friends. In unison, our tails wagged in a symphony of mischievous mirth. I summoned an image from the past—a snowy day when zoomies got the best of me—and tore through the mounds of soapsuds as if they were flurries, making the villain slip and tumble in a confused heap.

With a final bark of victory—a sound harmonized by Smokey and Chenice from behind—we left him tangled and bubbling away, a testament to our canine camaraderie.

In the aftermath, the sun dipped low, casting golden skies over our beloved Spencerville. We gathered at Bow Wow Bistro for an evening of pizza slices and warmth. As the day wound down, I lay under my favorite tree, dreaming of reunions yet to come, savoring every moment of heroics and hilarity, knowing full well this wasn’t my last story.

Until next time, reader. Keep your ear scratches ready.