Hey Dad,

Just saved Spencerville from aliens with my canine crew! Used wit, wags, and a bit of slobber—turns out I’m a hero and a diplomat with a tail. Miss our burgers; give a scratch for me.

Catch ya later,
Bubs 🐾✨

There I was in Spencerville, where the air shimmered with the quiet buzz of contentment and every blade of grass seemed to wave hello. I, Bentley, the English Bulldog—bearer of the distinguished white stripe and a snout famously hostile to the botanical offerings—found myself in the throes of what could only be described as an ordinary day, or so it should’ve been.

Having engaged in the usual morning tussle with Fat Russell, I waddled to Paws-A-Latte, eyeing the barista with a penchant for extra whipped cream. But the lighthearted banter of the morning crowd ceased as an eerie light sliced through the serenity of our town like a rather unpleasant dollop of lemon in a sea of sugar.

A hush fell over the fur and whiskers of the patrons as we collectively tilted heads skyward. “Oh, look,” I mused with a nonchalance that fooled no one, “we appear to be the scheduled stop for an alien tour bus.” And indeed, a great shadow loomed over Spencerville, a spacecraft of such ludicrous proportions it might’ve been compensating for something.

The aliens that disembarked were not the charming little green chaps one might expect. No, these beings were a symphony of tentacles and eyes, the sort that didn’t sit well with the aesthetic we’d cultivated.

They spoke in gurgles that couldn’t be interpreted as friendly, even with the most generous of translations. Nevertheless, I approached. Courtesy is my middle name, well, it could’ve been, had Dad decided against alliteration and named me Bentley Courtesy Bulldog.

“Welcome to Spencerville,” I declared, deploying the full force of my ample charm. But as their tentacles wavered ominously, perhaps referencing what I assumed were intergalactic travel brochures, I realized our unspoken language involved less chatting and more chasing.

Invasion on the agenda, it seems. “Very well,” I sighed, ready to assume the mantle of reluctant hero—with or without capes. Capes catch in my teeth.

Forming a council with Fat Russell and the other, less significant creatures of Spencerville at The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium, we devised a protest—the kind only four-legged beings of great girth and greater flatulence could muster.

We’d face our visitors with the unwavering determination of those defending their fire hydrants. After all, an English Bulldog never cowers—not when treats and the freedom to snub vegetables are at stake.

The aliens made their intentions clear, deploying their glitzy ray guns and pointing them toward Choco Chihuahua Castle. It was an undignified sight, though I had to give them points for flair.

The battle was a tableau of chaos: tentacles versus tail wags, cosmic rays countered by a steady bombardment of well-aimed Jolly Balls. The air resounded with the peculiar symphony of yelps and screeches until the aliens, beleaguered by the onslaught of unadulterated animal ardor, retreated, their ship trailing smoke ribbons as it vanished into the cosmos.

Of course, once the adrenaline of interstellar diplomacy via brute force subsided, we all felt a pinch of remorse. There had been no attempt to negotiate over Pup-Tastic Pizza, and understanding was lost amidst the barking and the biting.

Shaking the stars from my eyes, I mused, “Perhaps they too were pining for their guardians, waiting for a reunion across the vacuum of space.” I thought of my own “Dad,” the noble giver of burgers and scratcher behind the ears. “We aren’t so different, us earthlings and those space squids,” I pondered between pants.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, tenderly outlining Pug Palace in gold, I ambled back to my spot, satisfied with a day’s work. One might say that was the day I became Bentley, the Bulldog who barked at the unknown sky and said, “Not today, thank you.”

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Tomorrow is another day. Another adventure. Until then, I’ll slumber, dreaming of delayed reunions and the reassuring scruff of love, my dogged heart syncing with the beating pulse of Spencerville.

The End.