Hey Dad,

Surviving the Spencerville chaos with my sidekick MacGregor. Think Mad Max but with more tail-wagging and sniffing around the ruins. Our gourmet treats may be a memory, but we’ve still got each other and a whole lot of adventure ahead. Building doggy paradise, one paw at a time!

Your adventurous pup,
Har Dog 🐾

Perambulating amidst the once-pristine lanes of Spencerville post-calamity—a veritable Götterdämmerung for the former utopia—there we were, my steadfast companion MacGregor Scotch and I, navigating uncharted burdens in the soot-darkened skies, pushing on with the kind of spunk you’d come to expect from a pair of French Bulldogs of noteworthy lineage. Harley—that’s me, mind you—was never one to dismiss the gravity of a situation, but here in the well-mown fields turned to wilds, a dog’s got to be more than spirited; one’s got to be a little stubborn, savvy?

The air was thick with the scent of upheaval and the smoke from… what? Civilization’s grand cookout? Ha. One must maintain a degree of levity in these trying times, wouldn’t you agree? MacGregor, that stark-white blighter of impeccable grooming, seemed less concerned with the ambiance of ruin. “Where to a bite, old sport?” I could almost hear the chap ask. A question worthy of an epicurean canine such as myself.

Kibble Cuisine, that beacon of gastronomic hope, once stood proud with its haute cuisine; now left in the wake was a haunting shell—perhaps a metaphor if one had a penchant for such musings. Our lack of kin in this newfound existence had cast a peculiar freeing sensation, a notion that togetherness could indeed be found in shared solitude. It was Bark Burgers last eve, its meaty residue still lingering in our thoughts—a hark back to the days before this all… this all went to the dogs, so to speak.

The mission? Ah, but of course—reconstruction of sorts. You gaze around, past the crumbling façade of Spa for Paws and beyond the tattered awning of The Pampered Pooch Salon—what remains is the spirit, the immutable Spencervillian essence that clings to life with tenacious, albeit manicured, claws.

The evanescence of a community predicated on fun and feasting had not eradicated the future hope of hearty reunions with those we’ve cherished. ‘Twas merely on pause, as it were. My father’s face, the beacon of my brave endeavors, was palpable in the very air that hung about us. The wistfulness of waiting underpinned by the assurance of an eternal embrace—a red chew bone, perhaps even the one of my passionate predilection, a symbol of unyielding resolve and magnificent obsession.

So, as it stands, we’re poets of a sort, aren’t we, MacGregor? Narratives penned through actions—through every capricious chase and drill-sergeant tug of war with rope—writing sonnets in the salt of the earth and singing ballads to the melody of resolute heartbeats.

And, oh! How I loathed that mechanical beast of cleanliness, the vacuum! Senseless dread, or perhaps a prescient tremblor in the mundane guise; regardless, it was but a blip in Harley’s intrepid sojourn—a tale that, I surmise, will fetch far more than mere passing mirth when recounted by the fireside of future refuges.

An incessant, joyous journey it is, with MacGregor Scotch to my left and an indomitable will straight ahead. Harley, oh Harley, you old dog. You won’t let the dust settle, now will you? Not when there is life yet to savor, not when the echoes of Spencerville remain. Forward, to the unknown delights, with the verve of a pup unbound!

The End.

Share This Story: