Hey Mom and Dad,

Just wrapped up another epic day at the office – judged the Great Spencerville Snack-Off (DEF not short on laughs or biscuits). Basically, I’m the food critic of the dog world now, with as much authority on treats as I have cuteness. Think Gordon Ramsay, but cuddlier. Saving a doggy bag for you!

Hugs and drools,

Fenny 🐾✨

Ah, the rollicking hustle of another workday at Spencerville’s Paws On The Grill, where the sizzle of ambition is as palpable as the steak on the coals. One might sit at their desk, or in my case, the oversized cushion by the water cooler, and ponder the profundity of office life. I’m Fenway, by the way—an English Bulldog with a penchant for life’s robust pleasures and a soft spot for a day at the grindstone, where every tail wag is a transaction, and every slobber is a signature on the dotted line.

They say an English Bulldog’s mug is built for sorrow, but don’t let these furrowed brows fool you. I’m the picture of contented industry here in the heart of Bulldog Bay. My days are rich tapestries of paperwork and play, minus the actual paper because, you know, opposable thumbs and all that.

Take today, for example. I sauntered in, fashionably late as a testament to my personality—which ranges from the loyalty of a knight in furry armor to the bravery of a beast who’s never met a mailbox he didn’t mistrust. Nodding to Barkley (who’s always got a story about that infamous Hyde Park Squirrel Debacle of ’09), I made for my corner, tennis ball in tow, ready to roughhouse with the usual suspects.

“Bit of a do today, chaps,” declared Fat Russell, my loyal confidante in gastronomic ventures, his jowls quivering with the effervescence of morning gossip. Our office, unlike any dreary human enclosure, bubbled with the effervescence of canine cheer—even our feline colleagues seemed to sport a whisker-wiggle of excitement.

It was, after all, the day of the Great Spencerville Snack-Off, and I, known as much for my protective nature as for my cunning culinary critiques, had been nominated to judge alongside my fellows. The office was a blur of wagging tails and eager eyes, awaiting the pageant of biscuits and bacons, as if Anthony Bourdain himself were to strut in on four paws.

But even in this near-perfect canine cosmos, certain idiosyncrasies can ruffle one’s fur. Like, for instance, the detestable act of ear cleaning—akin to torture for the likes of us nobly-eared hounds. “Just keep them swabs away from me,” I rumbled, my thoughts loud enough for the mockumentary cams to catch (thank the stars they’re charmed to translate Dog).

The extravaganza commenced with platters that would sway even the most tenacious waistline, yet in the sight of cream sandwich cookies – my “dollar cookies” as the humans fondly dubbed them – my focus was singular. Who could resist? Not I, as much a lover of the savory and sweet as I am of a good tussle in the backyard kingdom, my own slice of hallowed ground.

Now, my penchant for earnest criticism meant I had to push past personal favoritism, despite the tempting spread Fat Russell laid before me. While morsels vanished amid a cacophony of crunches, my brave, protective side emerged, ensuring fairness above all. “We’re not barbarians, after all, we’re Bulldogs,” I intoned with suitable gravitas, pausing for dramatic effect—Russell hung on every syllable like a pup to his first leash.

Our office escapade rolled on, a boisterous homage to the simpler facet of life—companionship. And amidst the jovial barks and the click-clack of claws on laminate, I, Fenway, sit as the robust narrator of this perpetual mockumentary; a bit chubby, slightly slobbery, utterly playful, and absolutely determined to face each day as if it held the secret recipe to the world’s most delectable, non-banana-infused, chicken treat.

So here we are, another day drawn to a close in Bulldog Bay of glorious Spencerville, where our tales are rich with loyalty and life’s naught but a chew away from perfection… until we’re reunited with those we guard so dearly in hearts large as our appetites. And as the sun dips beneath the kibble-flecked horizon, you’ll find me sprawled on cool floors, my dreams scented with savory delights and the enduring promise of tomorrow’s antics.

The End.

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