Hey Mom,

Can you believe I ended up on “The Pet Bachelor”? 🌹🐾 I had every tail in Spencerville wagging, but honestly, I was more interested in cookies than courtship! 🍪💔 Soco tried with a rose, but it’s the simple joys like chew toys and a human’s touch I miss most. 🧸❤️ Spencerville’s drama can’t compare to the love waiting at home. Chat soon!

xoxo,
Stitch 🐶✨

Listen to the story here

Let me tell you about the time I starred in the most harebrained hoopla Spencerville has ever wagged a tail at – “The Pet Bachelor.” Oh yes, yours truly, Stitch, plucked from my earth-toned, kibble-strewn life to weave into this theatrical courtship. It was a debacle dressed in tulle and tin foil – pure, unadulterated drama and, between you and me, a hoot and a half.

There I was at the illustrious Fawn Pug Palace, paws polished to a shine that could blind the anxious suitors yipping at the regal gates. Each glance from my big, beadle eyes sent a ripple through the kennel of canines, hearts aflutter like moths around a lamppost. But needless to say, in a place like Spencerville, where chewing a rubber bone accounts for an afternoon well spent, the bar for high-society extravagance isn’t particularly, you know, high.

I will not sugarcoat it; I’ve always had a certain gallantry about me, my tail wagging its own distinctive rhythm, indifferent to the syncopated beats of desire from the gathered throng. They sought affection, and I, well, I coveted cookies – the gastronomic pinnacle of my canine cravings – surely not the confessions of romance they were panting for.

Take Soco, the irrepressible mutt, more comrade than Casanova, yet there he was, presenting a slobbery rose between his teeth as if that constituted eternal fealty in the pet world. Oh, Soco, a rascal with a penchant for mischief and a slightly off-center wag.

“Pick me, Stitch,” he would say, eyes alight with a playful challenge rather than the gooey gloss of affection. “We’ll rule the Shepherd Skyline, two sovereigns surveying their canine domain.”

But the heart – or whatever serves in its stead here in Spencerville – wants what it wants. And as the show ground on, with its maudlin montage of sniffs, snuggles, and the distinct absence of kibble-centric dining experiences (a pity, really), my thoughts turned not to the charming chorus of adorers but to the singular error in their pandering.

Peanut butter. Good grief.

Would you believe someone had the gall to taint a perfectly adequate biscuit with the cursed spread? Perplexed doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface. They meant to entice me with the one comestible that sends me trotting away in disdain. An enthusiast for all things edible, I found myself the renegade, the rogue, the Beagle who barked ‘no’ to conformity.

Despite the frenzy of fur and pheromones fluttering about, for me, the climax wasn’t so much a crescendo but a whimper. And not because of any longing for the ceremonious bond of pet datehood—I’m far too wily for such trifles—but rather the disconcerting absence of my cherished chew toy. You cannot even fathom the slew of emotions I’d gnawed into that rubbery relic of revelry!

Yet there, amidst the theatrical absurdity, the somber realization that Spencerville is, after all, a prelude to another kind of union – one of inevitable reunion with the humans we’ve left pining in that other realm. A place parallel to Brown Boxer Beach and the highfalutin dinner-hall dramas of Kibble Cuisine.

In the end, fame or no, I remain that same mysterious tapestry, a Beagle of boundless breed, segments and stories intertwined, waiting for the day my wag and their tears mingle once more.

For now, though, I’ll bide my time, toying with hearts like the plaything I so wish to gnaw, my zest for life and cookies reflected in each tailspin of joy. And as for love, well, I can tell you this much: it’s less about the Soco-draped roses and more about room to romp, the clear Spencerville skies, and yes, a human hand to hold – eventually.

The End.