Hey Mom,

Just finished The Pet Games here in Spencerville – think Olympics with more fur and drool. I pulled a champ’s stroke in the swim, missing Ben and our car rides something awful though. But don’t worry, I’ll be wagging home with tales of glory and a bunch of new friends. Making you proud is the best prize. Love you.

Grooty 🐾✨

The dawn hails its first light over Spencerville, and here I am, Groot by name, bulldog by trade, fated to wag my tail ‘longside others of my kin in what they’re callin’ The Pet Games. A path of glory, they say, a ruffin’ riot of the first order, paws and jaws vying for the top of the pack. It’s a caper only Spencerville could hatch, a place all whiskered and wag-tailed.

Bullmastiff Boardwalk pulsates under the spill of mornin’ sun, bristling with anticipation, like a dog’s back ‘fore a summer storm. Companions, they say I got many, though names be tucked behind this stout heart of mine. They’re tromping around here too, readying themselves for the splash and dash to come.

Now, I’m a creature of comforts; a genteel game of fetch my choice sport, yet here I be, caught up in this grand old hoopla, a far cry from the snoozin’ and schmoozin’ I’m wont to. Ben, he’d know what to say, whistle wisdom my way, but he’s not here, bless his generous soul. I could do with a round of our shared adventures now, stead o’ this hubbub.

My ears twitch at the thought of that “figure 8” toy. An apt companion for moments of solace, if there ever was one. Daybreak dons its full dress now, and those confoundin’ green beans are far from my mind; gotta focus on today’s toil.

Now, ‘fore you go thinkin’ I’m some manner of cur, quakin’ in me boots, know that I, like the waters I cherish, can rise to occasion. Have a notion to win this thing, I do. Make Mom proud and show ’em what ol’ Groot’s made of – brine and brimstone, wrapped in a shawl of brown and white.

The games commence with no short measure of jolly upheaval. Dogs of every stripe and spot leap, bound, scurry, and sniff; Olympians of the chew toy and kibble bowl. I ace the swim trial, waves acknowledgin’ kinship with the ripple of my stroke. But where’s the glee of East Bulldog Bay’s tranquil embrace? Here, it’s an uproarious splish-splash of limb and snout.

True to nature, Spencerville’s shops and eats stand as monuments to our collective remembrance. Whiskers and Wings vend sustenance for the spectators, their fragrant bill of fare loftin’ ’round The Pooch Playhouse, which itself teems with sideline-onlookers. Faith and begorrah, the nature of this assembly’s to rile up the quietest of souls.

These games we play, a frolicsome jest ‘neath the guise of rivalry. We’re comrades despite the jostling and frolickin’, each hankering after that sandpapery kiss of victory upon our brows. Yet we await a day, not of revels or triumph, but of tender reunion, when them far-off calls of our kin return more than echoes.

A whistle shrills, and I lurch forward, but the memory of infinite car rides past tugs at my wits – those halcyon rollin’s along roads unknown, lands unseen. A prickle of solitude grips me, then releases; I’m surrounded by brethren. My step falters but regains its mettle.

And as the day saunters towards twilight, I ponder the true victor of such a day. Is it the plaque, the title, the fleeting glory? Naw, me thinks it’s the sharing of stories, the wag o’ tails, and the kindred romps, until that eve when Spencerville yields us to our years-long wait’s end.

In this tapestry of Spencerville, in this barking madcap ‘Pet Games,’ I stand, four-square, firm in the knowing – these days of ours are the grandest of tales and, steadfast, we play our parts till the stage lights dim, and the heartful reunion calls us home.

The End.