Hey Ma,

Just another day being the Petfather of Spencerville, settling a turf war with Sir Whiskers over squeaky toys (peacefully, over chicken drumsticks). Upholding our legacy by day and ruling with a toothy grin by night. Don’t worry, still your cuddly Lilly at heart, keeping family close even as I watch over this furry fiefdom. Miss you, chasing tales ’til we’re together!

Lilly Bug 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

Ah, you know me, don’tcha? Lilly. The English Bulldog with the fawn ear tipped in white, the off-kilter eye patch, and the tooth that sticks out like a misplaced cornerstone. Yep, that’s me—Lilly, the bulldog with a tale that tinkers on the edge of lore here in Spencerville.

I sit sprawled across the sun-warmed cobblestones of Cream Maltese Meadow, my belly soaking up the heat like a sponge, living the life of Riley—I mean Lilly. It’s one of those lazy afternoons where you could hear a pin drop at The Barkery. But let’s skip the niceties, eh? Out here, I’m something of a fixture, a statue if you like, but with a heartbeat and a pension for ice cream.

Now, let me tell you something, the big dogs in this town, they’ve got all their paws in the pie, see? And by big dogs, I mean yours truly, holding the fort at Silver Siberian Summit, overlooking the shenanigans of our furry paradise. Paws On The Grill? A front. Fetch! Toys and Treats? My territory. And The Furry Friends Art Gallery? That’s where I launder my chew toys.

You see, Spencerville’s a racket, and I’m sort of… What’s the word? The head honcho, the big cheese—the Petfather. But let’s keep it within the fur, shall we?

Now, my family’s everything to me, remember that. In my heart, I’m just a cuddly bulldog, loyal as they come. But in the streets? I’m the paw who calls the shots. My humans, they knew that back home. Here? Well, it’s no different.

Episode 3: The Squeaky Toy Skirmish

This morning, I found myself pacing before Howling Husky Hardware Store, strategizing my next move. There’s been a snag, see? Sir Whiskers—head honcho of the felines, thinks he can breach our treaty. A sly Siamese with designs on my squeaky toy supply from Fetch! Toys and Treats.

“Sir Whiskers,” I rumbled, the words pushing past my protruding tooth. “You muscling in on my turf?”

He stretched leisurely, that nonchalance grating on my nerves. “Lilly, darling, it’s a free market.”

I let out a low growl. This cat had nine lives, but I was willing to wager he didn’t want to start using them up.

So, we set a meeting. At The Barkery, neutral ground—where even your fiercest enemy will share a table with you if bacon’s on the menu.

It’s funny how disputes turn to dust over a couple of Furrific Fried Chicken drumsticks. Sir Whiskers, he’s alright for a cat, I suppose. He runs his side of the fence, naps in sunbeams, keeps up the aloof charade. But cross that fence? It’s my sunbeam, my turf, and he knows it.

As the sun dipped down, licking the horizon with amber and rose tones, we hammered out a truce. The chew toys stay in my court, Whiskers keeps his catnip—and the piece of Spencerville? Intact.

Walking back through Lower Golden Gate Gardens, I pondered. You know, even the Petfather has to admit, there’s wisdom in compromise. A bulldog bent on keeping her family’s legacy alive, sunbathing by day, and by night? Watching over a town where every tail has a tale and every paw has a plot.

My life here? It’s the bark and the bite, the snore and the war. A fine balance between sun-soaked idleness and the occasional scuffle for honor. This is my Spencerville, and I, Lilly, run it with a toothy grin and a slobbery kiss.

Because in the end, what’s a Petfather without her family? A pooch without a pack? Nah, family is the marrow in the bone. And until we’re reunited, I’ll hold down the fort, here in this nearly perfect paradise, where even the mob bosses wear collars… and occasionally chase their own tails.

The End.