Hey Mom and Dad,

Just another day for your Fenway being the tail-waggin’ lead of Spencerville’s furry tales! From morning yogs with Geoffrey to Bulldog Bay sunset reflections, I’m making memories and keeping our love alive. The friends here are family too, but no one replaces you. Miss you endlessly. 🐾

Hugs and head tilts,
Fenny

I wake up on a bed soft as clouds, and pancakes are flipping in my dreams. Turns out the scent isn’t part of my slumbering fantasies—it’s real. I stretch, and my stubby legs dangle off the side of the bed like overcooked spaghetti. Today feels like it’s going to be a winner.

I rouse myself and meander through the bustling streets of Spencerville. This is my town, my place, my story—and, boy, do I have stories. The trimmed lawns of Cream Maltese Meadow glisten with morning dew, almost urging me to roll over each blade of grass, but I resist. I’ve a social reputation to maintain.

The sun peeks over the horizon as I trot down to Yappy Yogurt for my morning kick. A breeze picks up. Tails wag in unison—it’s like a canine cancan without the lipstick and feathers. The owner, a dapper pug named Geoffrey, nods in my direction. “The usual, Fenway?”

I bark affirmatively. I mean, consistency is the biscuit dough of life, isn’t it?

Out front, with a bowl of yogurt topped with bacon bits—a hound’s creme brulee—memories wash over me. Back when dollar cookies weren’t a moment away and a nudge of my tennis ball couldn’t conjure up a game of fetch with dad. Spencerville is a patch of heaven, sure, but it’s no secret that every furry heart here pines for an echo of past cuddles, a ghost of past scratches behind the ear.

A harrumph beside me. Fat Russell has found his breakfast, too, his bowl nearly eclipsed beneath his rolling chin. His appetite could eat us out of Spencerville, but he’s family, spread out on a four-legged table.

“Heard about the reunion at Upper Black Bulldog Bay?” Russell pants, his words almost muffled by the feast.

“They planning to invite the cats this time?” I mumble through a mouthful of yogurt.

“You know they won’t, Fen.” He winks; even he knows that cats at a Bulldog reunion would be like sprinkling catnip on a Short Rib Sundae.

We amble along the streets after breakfast, past the Howling Husky Hardware Store. Barkley joins us, yapping about the latest crumpet he’s sunk his teeth into.

“You’d think after all these years, he’d learn how to appreciate a good old-fashioned dog biscuit,” Spencer chides, joining our motley crew in his finest tweed suit.

I roll my eyes, a white flag to the ongoing Biscuit-Crumpet War.

By midday, we loiter around Paws-A-Latte, where the conversation turns, as it often does, to family. Russell talks about his dynasty of dining tables, Barkley about his British bloodline, and Spencer, well, about how his pups are now donning mini suits. Me, I’ve got my own kind of family. The ties aren’t by blood, but they’re just as binding.

And as we sit, discussing the dramas, the squabbles, and the love—oh, the love—I understand our kinship extends beyond the realms of Spencerville. These rascal friends of mine, they’re more than just comrades. They’re the family I laugh and dine with while the chapters of our lives unfold in canine sonnets and tail-wagging narratives.

As the evening comes, I take my habitual waft of air by Upper Black Bulldog Bay, with its sunsets that brush the sky in strokes of mango and grapefruit. I think about the family I had, the family I have, and the family I will reunite with—hoping they’re somewhere out there crafting legends of their own, with a warm spot beside them where I once snuggled.

Yeah, this is my town. My place. My paw print on the story of Spencerville.

Till tomorrow, then, Spencerville.

The End.