Hey Mom and Dad,

Your beloved Sampson here, reporting from Pooch Paradise Island where I’ve become an unlikely contestant in a fur-flying ‘Survivor’ for dogs. Miss popping basketballs, but scoring aloof points against tail-chasing competition. Swapped treats for driftwood and making Bulldog waves, not just the doggy paddle kind. I’ve been outwitted by coconuts and outclassed by terriers, but still reigning champ of canine calm. The golden hydrant awaits, but win or lose, I’ve got stories for days.

Catch you on the flip side,
Big Sammy 🐾🏝️

In the expansive realm of Spencerville, where the days lazily blend into a tapestry of furry tales and wagging tails, my story unfolds—or rather, spills—in the most spectacularly ludicrous manner you’d dare imagine.

Sampson is the name, and here I stand—or sit, on my delightfully plump haunches—on the far-flung sands of a deserted island just a doggy paddle away from Spencerville proper. The place? Let’s call it Pooch Paradise Island. The game? A canine rendition of that human spectacle ‘Survivor,’ with enough drama to make a soap opera look mundane and challenges that make catching your own tail look like child’s play.

Now, I’m an English Bulldog of robust amusement with a penchant for popping basketballs—not playing the sport, mind you—far too unsophisticated. Alas, none of those balls lie here within my current island domain. Instead, Mother Nature has provided a cornucopia of coconuts, which, truth be told, lack the satisfying give of a beautifully inflated sphere.

I should be clear from the start: I wasn’t keen on this island escapade. But you see, the promise of an ultimate prize lured me in—though I now suspect it’s nothing more than an all-you-can-sniff buffet at Pup-Peroni. I would’ve preferred a soiree around The Woofy Bakery, but who am I to snub an island adventure?

The minute I arrived, flanked by my bulldog compatriot, Fat Russell, and my other companions, Fenway and Marley, I caught scent of the competition. A collective of paws from all around Spencerville, each eager—or deluded enough—to think they could win this game of survival.

Our first challenge, and wouldn’t you know it, a real humdinger: the Bamboo Baseline Bounce. The simplicity made it devilish. Bounce a coconut off a bamboo trampoline into a basket. No sweat for a critter fond of the ball sports, you’d think. But did I mention paws? Not exactly the pinnacle of coconut-handling apparatus, these.

“Ready, chaps?” I growled, my gravelly voice muffled through the tennis ball I had clenched in anticipation. The whistle blew, and my stubby legs propelled me forward, the coconut gyrating from my grasp like Marley in bath-time terror. Across from me, the competition: a sprightly terrier whose bounce-to-beard ratio was staggeringly off-kilter, and a German Shepherd so serious you’d think her tail was on the line.

But let’s cut to the chase. I failed miserably, watching as the coconut pathetically dribbled off the bounce pad. Meanwhile, a Greyhound, all legs and melancholic eyes, shot his coconut through the air as if it had sprouted wings from a Red Bull ad.

Post-defeat, the island life was not entirely unkind. Swapped Pup-Tizers for wild berries (highly recommend the blue ones, tart with a whisper of sweet), and for luxury, a bed dug out of soft, cool sand. No Snooty Snout Boutique treats, but Marley unearthed a decent(-ish) substitute with some sea-weathered driftwood. Gourmet? Not quite. But when in Rome…

The days became a hodgepodge of baffling island activities. I paraded through Corgi Castle-like obstacle courses, waddled past Eastern White Westie Woods in fear of twig entanglement, and made a show at Pawsitively Purrfect Pet Store-inspired bartering games, bargaining sea shells for immunity—of all absurdities.

Oh, there were alliances, scheming beneath the soft glow of the fireflies at night. Russell, bless his chunky heart, had developed a bond with a Siamese, his natural enemy, who possessed the uncanny ability to always land squarely on his feet—quite the feat among us canine participants.

Through it all, I retained the quintessential Bulldog facade of cool detachment with a dollop of athletic incompetence. The others, they pranced, preened and plotted. Me, I remained ever the Sampson. Stoic as those ancient creatures of legend. Sphinx-like, though arguably less agile.

And when the challenges mounted to absurd heights—leaping over swinging vines, paddling furiously in doggy boats shaped like oversized rubber duckies—I found my mettle. My strength. Sure, I was more likely to sink a boat than paddle it, but there’s no flair in easy victories, right?

As the games drew to a close and the prize—a grandiose golden hydrant, go figure—twinkled in the sun, it was clear that Pooch Paradise Island hadn’t bested me. No, Sampson does not get bested. Sampson enjoys. Sampson endures. Sampson, as it turns out, adores the chaos of a game, even without the familiar joy of a good basketball pop.

Perhaps one day I’ll recount these escapades to my humans, when we’re reunited in that final, glorious rush of affection. Until then, I recline on this island of madness and merriment, a bulbous Bulldog king in a land of inexplicable exploits—an island survivor of the most picaresque stripe.

The End.