Hey Mom and Dad,
It’s your daring Lucy, queen of the Bullmastiff Boardwalk, pirouetting through pet pageants and ducking into diners for a gravy shot. Just chased a mechanical squirrel but thinking of you both—Spencerville’s fun, but it’s no family hug. Can’t wait for our reunion! I’m living the life but always sniffing for home. Missing you and your chicken dinners!
Love, Goosey 🐾✨

You wouldn’t believe what goes on inside these fluffy heads of ours—you’re thinking tennis balls and belly scratches, but it’s not just that. It’s philosophies, it’s art, it’s… wait, there it is again, the rustle of a chicken leg beyond the horizon of Spencerville, sending my senses into overdrive and my thoughts scattering like the squirrels I dream of chasing in a more corporeal realm.

Bullmastiff Boardwalk is bustling, a symphony of sniffles and snorts as the pets parade their unique blend of human-like airs. And there’s me, Lucy, smack in the middle of it all, swashbuckling my way through this West Pet World, always an outlaw at heart, never quite a saint. You should see me saunter down the wooden planks, catching eyes left and right—maltese marveling, tabbies turning, every single one of them thinking, “That’s Lucy, the free spirit with droopy ears and a penchant for poultry.”

But there’s a bittersweet tang to the air, here at Poodle Pond, a reminder of the surrogate life we lead until we clock into our final gig, the long-awaited family reunion. It’s a serene little pocket in this ongoing saga of winged explorations and tail tales. And let’s be crystal clear, as much as the local jive preaches patience and all that jazz, your girl’s got the blues every now and then. It ain’t easy, being the belle of the boardwalk when your heart’s doing the jitterbug somewhere far and familiar.

I dart into The Bark Shak for a bit of respite. “Line ’em up, Fido—make it snappy and don’t skimp on the gravy,” I bark at the barkeep, who’s doubling as therapist today. “Lucy,” he sighs, giving the kind of look that’s part pity, part payback, “you gotta stop sniffing after every chicken ghost that crosses your snout.”

Just then, a whisper of a whiff catches me. Chicken. I’m up, I’m alert, and I’m outta there faster than you can say, “Pupperoni Pizza has a two-for-one special.” Into the tempest of tantalizing tastes I plunge, Spencerville spreading out before me like the map of the seven seas to a buccaneer. I can see them all—the Woof and Whisker Wellness Center whispers wellness while The Pawfect Training Center murmurs manners, but you know me, I don’t play by anyone’s rules but my own. As for The Canine Cafe, that’s where the broccolis meet their fate as floor decorations.

I’ve wandered into my backyard now. It’s quieter here, a step away from the histrionics of the high street. Birds chirp ironically, as if they know I’d sooner chase them up an oak tree than indulge in an earthworm workout. But I’m not on the hunt today—or so I tell myself with every unconvincing step. I’ll just lay here, eyes closed but mind wide-open, tiptoeing around thoughts of chicken leg tiaras and untapped potential.

Hello, what have we here? A squirrel—a mechanical one with springs for legs—daring to interrupt my contemplation of culinary conquests. “Not today, my spring-loaded friend,” I think to myself, even as every muscle coils in primeval preparation.

But wait—there’s Sprinkles, tip-tapping her way with the secret understanding only siblings share. I can’t help but smile; for all the incandescent joys of Spencerville, it’s kin who anchor me in this sea of perpetual motion. She’s been privy to all my plots, witnessed every wish, and cushioned every sigh.

Alright, mom, dad, whoever’s out there—I’m doing just fine. Outlaw queen of Spencerville, making the most of this peculiar purgatory. But just so we’re clear, when the gates of that great reunion swing wide, I’ll be the first in line, tail-a-wagging. For as delightful as these days may be, filled with savory specters and spirited sprints, they’re simply a stand-in for the embrace I yearn for, the family that shapes my very soul.

Now excuse me while I resolve this chicken conundrum in the only way I know how—front paws first, white flag nowhere in sight.

The End.