Hey fam,

Just dropping a line as the undisputed regent of Spencerville—where the daily hustle bustle involves beach romps, curiosities at the castle and feasts fit for a furry king. I’ve been tailoring peace treaties with a side of sausages, lending a noble ear to poodle woes, and perhaps partaking in a spot of Zen garden tomfoolery (don’t mind the missing rake). Fear not, my royal duties never overshadow my longing for home and humans. Reigning with a paw and a wag, Wild Man George – your beagle bard. 🐾👑🤣

Tails up,
George

Listen to the story here

Every kingdom, you see, has its king, and Spencerville—oh Spencerville—is no exception to this immutable law of realms both near and far. I, George, a soul vested in the fur coat of a basset hound, humbly hold the scepter (albeit metaphorically; it’s tricky without opposable thumbs) in this neighborhood of canine kings and queens, anointed by the harmonious howls of my peers and embraced by the simply delightful landscape that shapes our every frolic and feast here in the heart of loyalty.

So it goes, a day in my reign begins as the sun casts its first timid gaze over the Boxer Beach, lapping quietly at the edge of that sandy dominion that bows to no tide but that of jovial leaping and splashing. There’s a serene quiet in the air, a stillness reserved for the contemplative bliss that accompanies the first waking moments in one’s own bed, nestled within the known and comfortable breezes of Northern Choco Chihuahua Castle. Actually, scrap that. What I meant, of course, is that there’s a quiet in the air until Ella, the ever-eager labrador, starts chasing her tail, knocking over a suit of armor that’s been, for whatever reason, part of the castle décor since… I can’t remember when.

Yes, life here is an endless serenade, a dance of comings and goings and comical chew-toy rituals—and at the core, there’s me, guiding with a heart so full it might as well be the kind of centerpiece you’d find on a table at Bark Burgers, nestled among the scent of seared patties and the distant jingle of the ice cream van making its dutiful rounds to Pupsicle Palace. I ruminate on such matters as I crest the hill of Maltese Meadow, pondering just how those tailors at The Tail Wagger’s Tailor manage to measure us for those regal robes without thumbs, too. Remarkable, really.

Ah, but this narrative, this stream of canine consciousness, isn’t about the daily doings of my domain. It’s about the moments liner, subtler, when my long ears wave like the flags of my kingdom, hearing the soft sobs of a pup missing their human, something I too understand. Yet, in my most regal of capacities, I must soothe and assure; after all, Spencerville is but a waiting room with plush sofas and exceptional room service.

Take just last Thursday, when Maggie—a poodle of impeccable taste, let me tell you—started despairing over the arrival of a new kitten in her human household—pictures seen and scented across the chasm of worlds. I offered my most distinguished ear, and together, we partook in a Vienna sausage feast, a cheese-course not to be forgotten, delicacies interspersed with the kind of wisdom that can only come from a basset hound with a particular penchant for peaches.

Now, if you must know, there are times my kingly attitude is compromised—a little bird might tell you of my cheeky escapades involving the mysterious disappearance of the Maltese Meadow’s famed Zen garden’s minuscule rake. But these tales are more amusing asides than anything else.

In a world where every whimper is heard, every tail wag seen and every dreamy desire for belly rubs granted, I stand (or sometimes, lounge) as a devoted icon of mirth—my lamb chop toy never too far, my stories ready to unfold, my reign never to eclipse the noble truth that each of us is but a heartbeat away from our beloved humans. Oh, what a remarkable yarn this life weaves, between the wag and the woof.

The End.

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