Hey there! It’s your pal Brutus – Spencerville’s very own time-traveling Pitbull. Confession: swiped a machine, now I’ve wagged my tail across history. From dino brawls to ancient sniffs, life’s a wild romp. If the Whisker whirs, I’m off again. Stay slobbery, my friend, and remember the tales of time-trotting Brutus. Woofs & Whiskers, B.

So, listen: the name’s Brutus, and I’ve become what you might call an accidental time-traveler. Not the kind of gig you’d expect for a Pitbull, huh? Well, I didn’t expect it either, but here I am, sitting in Spencerville, chatting to you about this one time when I, uh, “borrowed” a peculiar contraption from Paws-A-Latte. Oh yeah, they make a mean espresso, but that’s beside the point.

There’s a trick to time-travel they don’t tell you about: you don’t feel it. One minute I’m chewing on my trusty ball, and the next, I’m face to snout with a T-Rex. And let me tell you, the big lug had nothing on me—though I might’ve peed just a little.

This glitchy machine, I came to call it the Whisker. Seems appropriate, no? Oh, the look in your eyes is just priceless; you don’t believe a word. But I kid you not. I’ve sniffed around the Pompeii fire hydrants (fine vintage), chased Roman chariots (talk about a workout), and napped in the shade of the Sphinx before there were even tourists to ruin the view.

The Beagle Beach? Child’s play. I’ve surfed on actual beaches with beagles, okay? At the Southern Golden Retriever River, you’ve never seen such majestic tail-waggers, since I’ve galloped alongside Genghis Khan’s hounds. The Dalmatian Desert? Pssh, I’ve trotted across real sands, and let me tell you, my spots were well camouflaged.

Now, about Spencerville’s eateries—I’ve had better. Remember that chicken I adore? I’ve had it fresh from a farm in the 1800s. Farm-to-table, quite literally. You can’t get fresher than that! Makes The Fetching Deli look like amateur hour.

But it’s not all chicken and giggles. I’ve seen things. Things that made my fur stand on end. Wars, plagues, disco… I’ve lived through it all. They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but whoever said that never saw Brutus the Pitbull sneeze through a whole cloud of Mesozoic pollen.

Friends? Yeah, I’ve got ’em all over the timeline. But the names—all echoes now. Nothing sticks when you’re zipping through the centuries, apart from the fur on the Whisker’s controls.

My siblings, though, they’re a different kind of forever. Time’s got nothing on the stardust that connects us. When I think of them, the stars seem to wink back, as if they know a secret. Maybe they do.

And just when I thought my escapades would never catch up to me, there I was, back in Spencerville, with a crowd of paws and maws gawking at my time-worn muzzle. “Brutus,” they yapped, “you scoundrel, where have you been?” How could I explain that I’ve sniffed out more history than Happy Hounds has doggy bags?

To be honest, I don’t really know how to turn off the Whisker. Every so often, it whirs to life, and zap! Off I go to who-knows-when. It’s a messy way to travel, sure, but life’s messy, ain’t it? A ball’s gonna get slobbery, a bone’s gonna get buried, and a Pitbull? Well, a Pitbull’s gotta have his tales.

So, as I sit here on the outskirts of Best in Show Photography, no picture can capture my travels. Not with their limited frames. My adventures—the real snapshots—are etched in the heart, as they say. Or in my case, probably somewhere in the ticking gears of a rogue time machine.

Just remember, if you ever step paw into Spencerville and hear of the wily, time-hopping Brutus: that’s me, and this, my friend, is just the beginning.

The End.

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