Hey buddy, Kara-may here, coming in hot from Cream Maltese Meadow – the turf of tradition and tastebuds! Just thwarted a culinary conspiracy and upheld the sacred recipe of Furrific Fried Chicken, all while romping through my own tale of tail-wagging self-discovery. Join the pack as we embroider the fabric of Spencerville with every sniff and adventure, finding our place under the watchful eyes of the moon and stars. Life’s a game, and we’re chasing the ball one bark at a time. Catch you on the flip side, where freedom is the leash we all share. 🐾 – Kara

Listen to the story here

As I, Kara-may, sauntered along the marbleized edges of Cream Maltese Meadow, the tips of the ever-eager grass blades tickling the underbelly of my twilight coat, I savored the blend of colors dancing along my fur—sable, white, merle, splashes of dusk painting a perfect canvas. I dodged in and around the statues of my ancestors, each chiselled with care, standing guard over Spencerville like ancient shepherds.

Oh, but life here is more than statues and aesthetics; it’s one long sunset spilling warmth, yet with the promise of another day. You see, in Spencerville, even an exquisite creature such as myself is not spared the quandaries of youth. I am a young dog, a Shetland Sheepdog of no small charm, learning the ways of our idyllic society—finding my place amidst the barkers and the chasers, the thinkers and the players.

Upon a time, not distant, just tucked behind yesterday’s tail wag, I happened upon a kerfuffle by the Bark Shak. A mutiny of flavors, they said, and Max—the beagle of digger’s fame—had unearthed a recipe so outlandish, it sent whispers down to Upper Collie Canyon. They spoke of a Furrific Fried Chicken spiced with the zest of untamed oranges, a concoction I knew would set my mouth to rebellion.

I barked in sheer horror, not for dramatic flair, you understand, but to preserve the integrity of flavor as we know it. Lily, the genial Labrador, agreed with soft, rhythmic taps, our very own Morse code of culinary decency. We safeguarded traditions with our vigilance, ensuring not a single citrus dare invade the savory sanctity of our Furrific Fried Chicken.

Together, I and my band of merry companions, we pledged an oath to quality, an oath to guardianship, an oath to the taste buds of all Spencerville!

Oh, you mustn’t think that all our days are spent in such gastronomic warfare. No, indeed, they are but jigsaw pieces in a larger puzzle—my coming of age, my grand, giddy skip toward selfhood and shepherd-hood alike.

Why, just yonder past the elegantly trimmed hedges of The Tail Wagger’s Tailor, there lies the truth of this, our journey—a shop that stitches not just the garments but the very seams of social fabric. In exchanges of sniffs and tail wags, we exchange pleasantries and personalities until one dawn, like fog lifting over Upper Collie Canyon, you find it—that unspoken thing which makes you *you*. And you stand, four paws planted like oaks, knowing at last that here is where you belong, precisely and absolutely.

My lessons of the day are served with side orders of wisdom, each one more appetizing than the last. To glean respect is to pick it from the vine, ripe and bursting with potential. And of love. Ah, love—the tennis ball of our souls, seasoned by play and time. Jamie knew its worth, and though my human now watches from a different vantage, our game plays on beneath the patronage of stars.

Here, in the cradle of the moon, where the nights are stitched with whispers of remembrance and longing, we dogs of Spencerville chase the tale of tomorrow. With heads high, we run toward the day when we’ll roll, tumbling into the arms of the humans who have loved us so.

But for now, feel the grass, embrace the brook’s caress, and let the morrow fetch itself. For I am Kara-may, and my story—our story—is the very essence of freedom.

The End.