Hey Mom!

Guess what? I’m basically Sherlock Bones now! Found myself sniffing out a mystery in Spencerville with my furry crew. Bookstores in chaos, legends awakening, and a howl that’s calling us to adventure! I’m about to become part of pet history. Paws crossed! 🐾

Licks and wags,
Daisy Mae

Listen to the story here

Episode One: A Howl in the Hollow

In that first light of dawn, Spencerville wasn’t just the sanctuary of departed pet souls—it was my kingdom, its scents and sounds a symphony to my perked ears. But don’t think it all fluffed tails and petting galore, mind you. This town had gone to the dogs, quite literally, in a rather more unsettling way since The Event. It left us navigating a dog-eat-dog world, where every purr felt precious, and every growl held the gravitas of a novel’s last words.

It was just another morning, or so it seemed. I trotted through White Westie Woods, my paws silently crushing the dew-heavy grass, when a scent unfamiliar teased my nostrils—an inkling that today was going to be rather out of the ordinary. You see, it wasn’t the alluring aroma of Fur Tacos, nor the mouth-watering whiff from Bone Appetit. It was the scent of uncertainty, tinged with adventure. A scent I knew meant life was ready to throw a rabbit into our peaceful existence; and no self-respecting husky mix could ignore such a chase.

I quickened my pace, elegantly looping through the trees like chapters weaving through a narrative. I hadn’t a plan, which for a sort highly driven by instinct as mine, wasn’t blindingly unusual. The scent led me to Spotted Red Beagle Beach, where the waters lapped with whispers of distant places.

“Daisy, there you are!” barked Rufus, a burly, but undeniably charismatic Rottweiler with an eye for the melodramatic. “We’ve got signs of intruders.”

“Have they come for the pleasures of Bullmastiff Boardwalk, or the treasures of The Fetching Feline?” I quipped, keeping the mood lighter than a hound’s heart at supper time.

“Neither,” Rufus replied, not attuned to jocular exchanges at such an hour. “Something’s awry, and I’ve a mind it’ll take more than a tug on the leash to sort this one.”

We agreed to investigate, the pack of us—there was Rufus, myself, and a sassy Beagle named Betty with a nose for news and a tail that couldn’t keep a secret. We made our way to The Wagging Tail Bookstore, the intellectual hub of our furry community and the likely place to sniff out the origins of our intrigue.

The store was in disarray, books scattered like fallen leaves on an autumn day. Claw marks marred the entrance, a sure sign of struggle or insatiable curiosity—both equally plausible in our current conundrum.

“Ruffians?” I pondered, eyeing a memoir titled ‘Nine Lives of Spencerville’ which lay open, its pages yearning for resolution.

“Don’t be daft, Daisy,” Betty snarked, her long ears twitching with every sound. “This was no ordinary ruffian’s work. Look—there!”

Atop a pile of canine literature, an ancient tome was positioned peculiarly, as if deliberating its own fate. I approached, careful not to upset the fragile pages.

“Legends of the Lupine,” I read aloud, the title embossed with letters that seemed to howl in silence. As my snout brushed the cover, the room tilted—a twist in the tale, if you will.

A gust swept through the room, carrying with it the scent of savory secrets and unfathomable destinies. The three of us exchanged glances, each heavy with heroic resolve.

“This isn’t just a sign, it’s a howl for help,” Rufus stated, his voice holding a solemnity reserved for the deepest of dogged concerns.

We were pets no longer content to wait idly by the window for the return of our humans. Fate had thrust us into the lead role, our very own episodic epic, and we were determined to be protagonists worth wagging about.

So it would begin, a canine crusade to forever alter the tales told of Spencerville. The legends we once lived by were being re-written beneath our paws and, as I stood shoulder to shoulder with my comrades, I knew the adventure ahead would be one for the annals of Spencerville history. Ah, but I digress, for now is not the time for tales—it is the time to act, roam free, and answer the howl in the hollow.

The End.