Hey Dad,

Just giving ya a tail wag from Spencerville! Accidentally turned philosopher while chasing internal adventures and stumbled upon a twin to my old rubber chicken, reminding me that even in the afterlife, I’m still growing and finding new joys. Who’d have thunk? Ears are still dragging but the heart’s flying high.

Catch ya later, Rasco 🐾

So there I was, Rasco, the Basset Hound with legs too short for my body and ears too long for my head, a patchy tapestry of fur that somehow made perfect sense. I had long since arrived in Spencerville, the kind of place one doesn’t find on any map because, well, it isn’t meant for just anybody. It’s for us, the dearly departed pets waiting, living lives so enviable even our humans would wish for a tail to wag.

Picture this: Maltese Meadow was aglow with sunlight that could turn your average dog into a poet – if dogs cared for poetry, which I, for one, didn’t. I was more of a feel-the-grass-between-your-paws kind of philosopher. My days in Spencerville were episodes, self-contained yet part of a grander narrative. And the narrative was simple: grow up. Keep growing until you can’t anymore, because that’s what you do even when the growing seems to have stopped.

Being a tale of coming of age when you’re already past the age of chasing balls and tail-wagging at the sight of a leash, poses a peculiar pickle, but here I am, dealing with the eternal puppyhood that Spencerville affords without the nuanced responsibility of, say, avoiding accidents on the carpet.

My daily trots usually steered me to Whiskers and Wings. Their menus were a dance of flavors so tantalizing that even the memory of peanut butter became like a far-off dream. I’d sit there, contemplatively munching on Fur Tacos, thinking about the things one thinks about when one has all the time in the world and then some.

“You really should get out more,” Max would comment, a dollop of BBQ sauce highlighting his golden muzzle. “This place is an adventure. Try The Groom Room for a change; they’ll give those ears the flapping glory they deserve.”

Max, for all his shiny optimism, didn’t understand. My adventures were internal, a thread weaving through the fabric of myself, finding stitches I hadn’t known were loose. The kind where growth came from accepting that cars with their windows down were memories, and Maple Hill was a panoramic paradise lost.

It wasn’t until the grand opening of The Barking Boutique that my episodic existence turned a page. They had squeaky toys, a lot like my rubber chicken who had sang the song of its people until silence. There it was, in a bin, a squeaky rubber chicken that could have been its twin, separated at the factory.

My heart did something funny then. It danced, no, galloped like a puppy hearing the jangle of a leash. It was out of place, this youthful exuberance in a place like Spencerville. It wasn’t about the chicken; it was about change – about realizing there was a part of me ready to scamper down the road anew. And perhaps that was the crux of it, the kernel of truth in an eternal pup’s life: we are never too old to find new joy, to feel the wind in our ears even if the car has long since parked.

I’d recount this to Max as we’d sit by Labradoodle Lake, watching the sunset paint us in auburn and gold. I’d tell him about my chicken, about growth, about the creaky, stubborn gears of adolescence clicking into place even as we sat with graying muzzles.

“Sounds like the ear-cleaning wasn’t for naught, eh?” he’d jibe, and we’d laugh because in Spencerville, every laughter echoed with the promise of a reunion, and every wag spoke of days filled with more than just waiting.

So perhaps this is not just coming of age; this is coming to terms, coming to joy, coming to know that the legend of Rasco was more than ears and tales – it was all about the heartbeats in between.

The End.

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