Hey Mom,

Kirb here—retired from the SS Slobber, but still cruising the cosmos of Spencerville. Sipped on some stellar meaty java today, reminisced about old space chases over kibble, and held court with the old fleet at Greyhound Grove. Miss you and Earth, but my spirit is still adventuring in this star-pup’s retirement village. Dreaming of our reunion while the universe hums outside my window.

Catch you on the flip side of the Milky Bone Nebula,
Kirby 🚀🐾✨

I arose to the gentle bustle of Spencerville, stretching my stubby legs far too early for a retired space hound like me. The digital sun, a marvellous contraption, shed its virtual light upon my wrinkled brow, rousing me from dreams of intergalactic escapades. Ah, to be at the helm of the SS Slobber once more, navigating the Milk Bone Nebula!

My first order of business was to saunter down to Paws-A-Latte. Nothing starts a day quite like a hot steaming bowl of meat-flavored java. The barista, a Springer Spaniel with an uncanny knack for remembering orders, tipped her hat at me. “Your usual, Kirby?”

“Make it extra meaty,” I replied with a woof, my voice no more than a growl softened by the canopy of starlight pixels above.

Though the creatures of Spencerville lead a life unrivaled in its comfort, there’s an unspoken understanding here. We all bear the mark of an adventure that once coloured our days with shades of cosmic dust and cometary tails. Now, we simmer down to quiet domesticity, awaiting the day our humans will burst through the veil separating our worlds.

Breakfast, they tell you, is the most important meal of the day, even here among the stars. A quick scuttle to Kibble Cuisine, and I’m down two bowls of fish-flavored crunchies (Not those goldfish. Never those.) The usual suspects lounged in booths, tails thumping in a rhythm as ancient as time itself.

Lunchtime brings with it the trials of running my errands. I steer past Shih Tzu Stadium (too noisy for my muscular ears), making my way to The Pawsome Pet Pharmacy. A chap needs his arthritis cream, part of the old fighter pilot’s toolkit. I can handle a skirmish with space pirates, but stairs? Diabolical.

I never understood the appeal of Bow Wow Burgers, my preference being for gamey fare rather than manufactured meat, but today, as I ambled past, I could almost smell the interstellar grill sizzle with the fragrance of alien beasts. Memory, such a fiend.

Afternoons can be rather drab, so I devote them to the pursuits of leisure and companionship. An unbeaten commander of the Dog Star Fleet should, after all, maintain a certain decorum. Me and the lads made ourselves known at Greyhound Grove, stories of our conquests vanquishing the tranquility. Our tales spun webs of gallant bravery, draped in the cloth of cosmic winds.

Evenings are sacrosanct — a time for contemplation. There, in the solitude of my abode, I nudge my purple dinosaur toy with a sense of longing. It’s my connection to Earth, to the loved ones whose laps once served as my captain’s chair. Ah, simple joys!

Nibbling idly on a leftover treat, I’m reminded of my dietary particularities — who decided bananas should be a dog’s friend? Madness, I say. Revolting yellow treachery. Give me a space slug any day.

Night draws its cloak over Spencerville. But it’s never truly dark here; stars twinkle perpetually, and we, its celestial creatures, howl a chorus eternal. I traipse to the highest tower of Corgi Castle, gazing upon the artificial cosmos.

Here I stand, Kirby the fearless, the eternal optimist, determined that the morrow will bring more than this celestial suburbia. For a dog with starfaring blood coursing through his veins knows that adventure lurks just beyond the horizon.

I bed down, the memories of my exploits whispered into the plush carpeting, waiting for the day when I shall feel the gentle embrace of my human once more. Until then, I dream of vast space odysseys, my heart buoyant in this waiting room amongst the stars.

The End.