Hey, just finished another roundtrip with the time-traveling booth! Swapped tales with T-Rexes, dodged jousting lances, and ended with a deluxe pup-cake by Poodle Pond. Let’s just say Spencerville isn’t ready for our kind of history walks. Meet me at the pond? Dex 🐾🕰️🍰

Right then, where were we? Ah, yes—Spencerville, a place unbound by the mere pedestrian concerns of your average, temporal township; an in-between sort of land with the kind of charm you’d expect from a place where every wagging tail comes with a tale or two. I’m Dexter, by the way, but you knew that, didn’t you?

But let’s not dilly-dally with introductions; let’s dive nose-first into the fabulous fiasco I found myself in—an adventure woven with the very fabric of time itself.

One fine afternoon, as I was nonchalantly strolling by Retriever River, a conspicuous contraption caught my eye. It stood there, parked next to The Howling Husky Hardware Store, glinting under the serene Spencerville sun—a phone booth. Not your run-of-the-mill, make-a-call, drop-a-coin sort, but a proper time-traveling phone booth, reeking of adventure and possibly, just possibly, a hint of wet dog.

I approached it with that mixture of curiosity and caution that only comes naturally to us K9 connoisseurs. The door opened with a creak that suggested it needed a generous dollop of oil—or a good scratch behind the ears.

Once inside, there was a myriad of buttons, levers, and knobs that looked like they could do with a good chew. But chew I did not, for I am a dog of considerable self-restraint, and besides, one never knows what might happen if one were to chew on the fabric of space-time.

The central console pulsed with a heartbeat like the rhythm of a thousand dreamt-of squeaky toys, and I felt the air thrum with potential. I won’t bore you with the details of how I operated the device; let’s chalk it up to canine intuition (and a judicious nudge on a lever with my snout).

Before you could say “Who’s a good boy?” the booth was hurtling through the slipstream of time, with all the grace of a greyhound and the stability of a Chihuahua in a windstorm.

Our first stop was, let’s just say, a bit prehistoric. Quite literally. Giant bones littered the landscape, and I felt sure Mr. Harrington would’ve dropped his stew had he seen the size of the creatures they belonged to. Dinosaurs, the big scaly ones without fur, roamed about. I decided not to stick around; playing fetch with a T-Rex seemed a bit above my pay grade.

Next, a hop-skip-and-a-jump in time, and I sauntered into the Middle Ages. Knights, ladies, jousting tournaments—the lot. My glossy coat and broad shoulders drew the attention of a fair princess, who thought I was the cat’s pajamas—or, well, the dog’s armor, I suppose. I didn’t stay long enough for a portrait; castles are drafty, and I missed the sound of wind through the pines.

Finally, I nudged the booth back to a more familiar time and place. Just in time, too, for I had grown quite peckish and was dreaming of Mr. Harrington’s scrumptious stews.

I emerged outside Pup-Cakes, and the smell was divine. Time travel, as it turns out, works up quite the appetite.

As I sat devouring a pup-cake (hold the citrus, please), I mused on the nature of time. For a dog that’s amassed as many years and memories as I have, the past is like that frayed tennis ball I so dearly cherish—faded, worn, but full of joy and a squeak that may occasionally surprise you.

Benny trotted up, panting with excitement, and I greeted him with a knowing nod. We dogs of Spencerville may have our adventures in time and space, but in the end, it’s the waiting that’s the sweetest. The waiting for our loving humans. Until then, Benny, how about a trot to Poodle Pond? I hear the water is lovely this time… whichever “this time” we’re in.

The End.