Hey Ma,

Just a quick tail-wag from Spencerville! Your boy Doc’s been learning life’s bigger lessons beyond the leash – like taking the odd rain shower and turning it into wisdom. Abby’s got me trying new tricks, even sniffing out the path to bulldog enlightenment. It’s all about the artful romp through the afterlife, finding courage not just in the bark but in the quiet moments too. Who knew eternity could teach an old dog such new tricks? Updates to follow. Stay pawsome!

Woofs and wags,
Doc aka Doccy

Listen to the story here

There’s something to be said about the art of living, and in Spencerville, I’ve made it my canvas. You know me – Doc, the English Bulldog with a trot like a wind-up toy that’s seen better days. I arrived here, in this strange town for departed pets, without knowing what would come of me. Everything about Spencerville was excessively alive, a paradox for a place of lost pets.

My days began in my comfy abode on the edge of East Pug Palace, but I’ll tell you, I ain’t the type for palaces. Give me a simple rug that smells faintly of summer barbecues and last year’s Halloween treats, and I’m as snug as a pug in a rug, if you will. Trouble is, I got none of that here; instead, every morning’s accompanied by symphonies from Shih Tzu Stadium, a stone’s throw away.

Today, like any other, I ambled towards Bark and Bites, the ritzy eatery that never ran out of watermelon cubes or crunchy carrots. I’ve got my habits, alright. The waitress, a sprightly Golden Retriever with a perpetual wag, knows to never bring me lettuce. Lettuce is to good eating what the vet is to a peppy pup—unnatural and somewhat offensive.

Abby, my better half and the belle of the bone, scolded me as we sat for our morning munch, “Doc, you’ve got to wean off those burgers. Try a bit of balance, won’t you?”

Sweet Abby, always looking out for me. Now her, she danced through life like it was one big, open field, her white coat catching the sun like a flare of hope. Abby had found her way here long before me and was well adjusted to Spencerville life.

But enough about diet. I’m a bulldog, mind you, with much meatier things on my mind than actual meat. I’m talking growth, revelation, turmoil—the kind of things you chew on, the things that make a pup into a dog.

I used to bark up every tree thinking I was macho. Protective, even. Yet what did it bring me? Abby taught me the virtue of restraint, of watching more than leaping. So, I learned to be the watchdog who observed first. Here, in this haven where the wind tousled the leaves of Westie Woods just right, it dawned on me that being brave didn’t mean being front and center all the time. The bravest thing, sometimes, is standing back – or so I grew to understand.

Those days of growth were much like hopping from one pebble to another across a creek, like the episodes of life that floated by. There I was, fending off the fears of the beach, growing to appreciate the grains of sand that once irked every fiber of my being. The ocean haunted me less, even became a gentle hum that soothed my fraught nerves—I’d never have admitted it back then.

I still don’t love the rain. But it’s a bit like life, ain’t it? You don’t have to love every part, but to weather the storm is to grow. So, I growl less and listen more; the rain’s taught me patience, just as Spencerville has taught me acceptance.

There’s something profound about a bulldog pondering his existence amid the metaphysical musings of an endless yard. As far as Bildungsroman tales go, I reckon mine is shaping up to be a real humdinger. A dog yearns for growth, craves it like a delicious secret tucked inside a chew toy, waiting to be discovered. And let me tell you, my journey of enlightenment is an ongoing saga, peppered with the same comforts and affections I cherished in life.

Each of my strolls through this town interlaces with chapters of an internal epic, a narrative that’s mine and mine alone. None of it’s straightforward; it’s all the zigzagging path of life… or the afterlife, I suppose.

So here I stand, in my corner of Spencerville, a slice of sunshine upon my back, and a grateful scratch behind my ears. I’m a bulldog with a legacy still being written, with Abby at my side and a gaggle of kindred spirits exchanging tales that weave the fabric of this place.

I’ve got my piece of the pie here, my spot in the world that goes on without end. A ticking clock without hands, and a road without mile markers—isn’t that just the way of it? Yet, for all its twists and turns, for all its peculiar ways, there’s comfort in knowing that my story, a bulldog’s tale of coming into his own, is being told in the heart of Spencerville, every splendid day.

The End.

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