Hey Mom,

Wild day! Got swept off to an island adventure, turned survival expert & became chief of a stranded doggo tribe. Missed my comfy bed, but I led our S.O.S. to rescue. Tales of valor & coconuts soon. Home now, craving a no-swim bath & cuddles.

Hugs,
Meili (aka Fatness)

You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had. As the name suggests, Pocket Bullies like myself aren’t exactly built for the rough and tumble of survivalist endeavors, especially not when our insatiable curiosity catapults us into, say, a wild adventure on Malamute Mountain.

The day had begun innocuously enough in Pawsburgh. It was one of those mornings when the sun stroked your fur just right while you basked in the promise of unbridled freedom and the faint whiff of Paw Pad Thai from downtown. I, Meili the Magnificent, had trotted off to Cavalier Cove – a misstep away from civilization and a dog-paddle from the unthinkable for a bath-averse canine: an island where swimming is non-negotiable.

Now, let’s get one thing as clear as the kibble-shaped constellation in Pawsburgh’s night sky: I didn’t intend to get stranded. I’d merely followed the scent of adventure (and possibly leftovers from Golden Grub) when it happened – the ground beneath my paws gave way, and I tumbled headfirst into a canoe that, as my luck would have it, was loose and ready to sail off with the next gust.

Before I knew it, I was adrift. The coastline of Pawsburgh, with its promise of parfait and pampering, faded from view, and adventure morphed into an ill-wished escapade.

I’m no seafaring hound, mind you. My kind much prefer their escapades on dry land, where the only waves we contend with are those of belly rub requests. But here I was, aboard a vessel as unsteady as a cat on a skateboard, a skip and a hop away from Dog Knows Where.

Hours, or minutes (time is a smear when you’re panicking), passed in the open water before my vessel of misfortune bumped onto the sandy shores of a deserted island. The island itself seemed to smirk, as if hurling silent jibes about my predicament.

It didn’t take long for my survival instincts to kick in – which, for a suburban Pocket Bully like myself, meant finding the quickest way back to the prospect of cuddles and chew toys. I rallied a ragtag band of stranded pups, survivors from previous Pawsburghian mishaps: a Dalmatian with a penchant for drama, a Bichon Frise with an uncanny sense of direction, and a Beagle whose howl could signal passing ships (or so we hoped).

Together, we foraged for food that wasn’t drowned in seasoning. Remember those bread and potatoes I disdained? Well, they didn’t seem so bad when the alternative was a coconut with an attitude. And water – pah! The kind that doesn’t quench thirst was suddenly a lifesaver. It was a dog-eat-dog world out there, except we were just eating coconuts.

The days melded into a frenzy of fort-building (ok, hole-digging) and signal-fire attempting. The whole experience was like Topaz Terrier Town’s Escape Room, except the only prize for getting out was the promise of warm blankets and less existential dread.

But my story ends as every dog’s tale should – with a hero’s return. We were rescued by a band of seafaring Schnauzers, who’d seen our signal – a giant “SOS” trampled into the sand, which I may add was my ingenious idea. It might have taken more teamwork than a howl at the moon choir, but we did it. We survived.

They say every cloud has a silver lining, but this dog found his lining wrapped in survival, friendship, and a newfound appreciation for the safety of Cavalier Cove’s no-swim zone. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for a well-deserved visit to The Pampered Pooch Salon – because even the bravest of adventurers need a good, soothing bath. Just keep it to the paws, OK?

The End.

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