Hey buddy, just took a pawse from all the tail-wagging drama in Spencervilla! Turns out, I’m the reluctant heroine in a dog-eat-dog power scrap. Imagine me, Wocket, swapping chicken chomping for peacekeeping. Think frisbees, not thrones, and belly rubs over barks of command. The real power? It’s in the nose boops we give, free of charge. Keeping the peace until our humans return. Stick with me—we’re in for a legendary run!

Wags and woofs,
Wocket 🐾

In the rolling emerald lands of Spencerville, where every fire hydrant is a monument and every scratch behind the ear is a sacrament, I, Wocket, furrow my scruffy beard and peer into the soul of the universe. On a panting summer afternoon, I find myself at the cusp of a canine conundrum, as a feisty paw-er struggle ensues amongst the fur-covered nobility of this nearly perfect realm. It’s high time I tell you about it. Yes, you know me, and you know this isn’t my usual tail-chasing.

In the bark of an instant, it’s no longer about the savory chicken delights—oh, those glorious, gently proffered morsels! Mr. Jenkins would be in stitches if he saw me uninterested in such earthly pleasures. But look how times have changed, how the shadows of clouds I once chased are now omens of a furry game of thrones.

Barkley, with his Beagle bawl grander than any aria at the Met, fancied himself the top dog of the opera, of White Westie Woods. A woof here, a howl there, and he gathered a following, a furry fan club drooling for his next performance, oblivious to the strings of power he plucked with his velvet paws.

Then there’s Muffin, draped in fluff finer than the finest silk, pawing at the notion of a purr-fect society in Spencerville. She turned Choco Chihuahua Castle into a court of catty intrigue—with her royal whims and fiddled, feline decrees.

It should’ve been no business of mine, lounging lakeside at South Poodle Pond, letting my philosophical ponderings ripple through the water. But what is a dog to do when her friends treat companionship as a game of musical dog beds? Toppling trash cans in a bid for canine control, scratching for power with the reckless abandon of a pup digging to China.

Here I am, tangled in the great unfurling leash of destiny at Doggy Delight, savoring the last crumbs of The Doggy Bagel Deli’s specialties, musing watched over by Sir Scratchalot of The Pawfect Training Center. I have a confession: I never thought the taste would be this complicated. Would fate have me roll over, show my belly to these base desires of dominion? Or would I leap, fetch the stick of righteousness, present it to the snouts of my friends, and remind them of the bonds of loyalty we share?

My legs are short but my will is long. I hover through the streets of destiny, where stories of bravery and bow-wow be told through playful growls and heartfelt licks. We are all waiting here, in our own way, for the reunion with our cherished humans. Until then, might as well become a legend. Might as well stand with my paw raised, scruffy beard blowing in the wind, and declare that power in Spencerville isn’t taken—it’s given, with slobbery kisses and nose boops of consent.

Let it be known, through sniffs and wags and what have you, that Wocket, the Brussels Griffon, stood firm when the park of peace became an arena. The choice, my friends, is a frisbee of fellowship, not a throne of bones.

I wag, not for power, but for the peace of knowing when the countless stars come out, my siblings see the same night sky. We’ll all roam the infinite fields together, one day, in memories and in the heart of Spencerville. Until our humans come for us, I’ll guard my cherished, slightly deflated soccer ball—because, truly, isn’t that the throne we’d all rather have?

The End.

Share This Story: