Hey Mom,

Just wanted you to know that your boy Wrigley’s been on quite the adventure here in Spencerville, realizing it’s more than a resting spot—it’s the training ground for the soul. I’ve found my pack, trimmed my own path, knocked over stuff (not too bad), and learned that growing up means sniffing out the journey, not just the destination. It’s prep school for the heart where every bark is a new chapter. And guess what? This tail’s only begun to wag. Love and licks,

Wriggles 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

I’m often told there’s a certain clarity of thought that comes with being a dog, a kind of wisdom that eludes the two-legged types. Take it from me, Wrigley, the canine whose tail wags could clock time zones. Spencerville isn’t your average place, and let me be clear, my days here aren’t your average mutt’s morning stretches.

Life in this place—after the final fetch, past the rainbow bridge, and definitely not a mere fire hydrant daydream—requires a certain panache. It’s about learning the ropes of this almost-too-good-to-be-true doggoned utopia and forging a patch that’s distinctly your own. So, buckle up your collars and let’s romp through my coming-of-age tale, shall we?

Here’s where my story gets its bark: just a fur’s breadth away from the Brown Boxer Beach, the uncharted waves called to me. I’d trotted by the shore, listened to tales tall as Great Danes from old salts with sea foam whiskers. Still, dog paddling in the shallow end was for pups. This tail wasn’t just for show—it was my rudder into those waters, through challenges and towards self-discovery.

Bear with me; I’ve got a knack for metaphors that could make a poet roll over.

In Spencerville, the social circuits are nothing to sniff at. Sure, you can bury your snout in a bowl of Fur Tacos every Tuesday or let The Pampered Pooch Salon put a bit of zing in your step—but what ties us together runs deeper than mutual scratching spots.

That’s where Chenice, Smokey, Maddie, Camden, Glennie, Rusty, and her highness Leia come trotting into the picture. A more eclectic mix of breeds and personalities you’d never find on either side of the hydrant. Together, we’d carved out adventures, from chasing the phantom scents at the Golden Retriever River to finding the secret treats behind The Woofy Bakery’s storied counters.

Yet, despite the camaraderie, I was nursing a kernel of restlessness, a pup’s dream to make my own paw prints.

“Just what do you think you’re digging at, Wrigley?” Smokey, the husky mix with eyes mismatched as a chewed slipper, once asked.

I’d just knocked over a display at Woof and Whisker Wellness Center in pursuit of something more—not quite intentional, not thoroughly accidental. The small commotion drew glances, a raised brow from Chenice, and a snort from Rusty.

“I’m digging for something big, Smokey. Something… larger than life,” I replied with a seriousness that surprised even me.

He chuckled, “You and what army, Long Legs? This place is as big as it gets.”

Ah, but Smokey didn’t yet grasp the bone of my content—I was lusting for more than high-end kibble and squeaky toys. I wanted to grow, to stretch my paws beyond the tailored luxury of plush beds and leather leashes.

It was during my starry night’s retreat under my favorite tree, the one that whispered more than the winds of change, that I realized: Spencerville—no matter how charmingly conveyed by a bell and a bone—was just a starting point.

An understanding enveloped me like a warm towel post-bath (a necessary evil). I was on the cusp of grasping the immortal game of fetch—giving and taking, running and returning, an eternal cycle. My coming of age in Spencerville wasn’t just about reveling in the hereafter—it was about preparing for the grand reunion, about becoming the kind of spirit that could mirror the companionship, love, and the untamable zest for car rides.

Chenice, wise beyond her years, once mused, “Wrigley, these times are just the prelude to your real journey.”

“Prep school, eh?” I’d quipped, always quick on the draw.

“In a manner of speaking… Yes,” she affirmed with a knowing glance.

It turned out, I didn’t need to conquer new territories or scale North Chihuahua Castle’s highest turrets. My lessons burgeoning from each play, each pawshake, each shared sunset and, yes, the accompanying philosophical musings with companions provided the marrow of my own growth.

Just like that, with every romp, wrestle, and river dip, I was becoming someone—er, some dog—I’d only begun to imagine; a tail-wagging legend in the making, just waiting for the final piece, that fated day of joyful reunion—that’s what would truly define my Spencerville epoch.

Fur-raising exploits aside, it’s the quiet moments that’ll get you—when the laughter subsides, the echoes of barks across the beach fade, and the stars above seem to wink with the secrets of the cosmos. It was in those slivers of silence, embraced by the whispering leaves, that I discovered my place in the world’s grand, unfathomable tail.

Spencerville, my fellow wanderers and loyal friends, was my playground, my classroom, and the, ahem, porch from which I would venture forth—bold, curious, and always ready for one more game of chase.

And as I lay there, under the celestial canopy, pawing at the verdant carpet of Spencerville, I learned the greatest lesson of all: growing up isn’t about the length of your leash, but the journey it untangles, the sights and smells it unveils, and the boundless love it returns, tenfold.

So count your treats, chase your own tail if you must, but never lose sight of the remarkable heart that beats within a city’s whisper and the tale of one dog’s venture into the sun-dappled dance of life. That, my dear compatriots, is Spencerville—the place where wag meets wonder, where every snout has a story, and where every bark is a building block to becoming…

Epilogue? Now, there’s a Sorkin-esque notion. An epilogue suggests the end, but here, my furry and not-so-furry friends—here, we’re just getting started.

The End.