Hey Mom,

You wouldn’t believe it, Spencerville is a dog’s paradise! Breakfast at the Pup ‘n’ Go, gabbing about the wacky Dog Star Council with Bella, and feasting at Dog-gone Good BBQ are just the tip of the tail. Found myself wishing on stars for a reunion on Western Husky Hill. It’s an otherworldly ride, but my paws are crossed we’ll share it together soon. Miss you tons!

Licks and wags,
Lulu 🐾✨

I’ve come to the conclusion that life in Spencerville is decidedly Epicurean; whatever the philosophers back on Earth might have proposed about stargazing and contemplating the infinite, dogs like us have our eyes firmly fixed on far more tangible pleasures, even when situated on the hem of an ever-expanding universe. Take this morning, for instance: waking blissfully in my patchwork bed in the heart of Cream Maltese Meadow, fur as fluffy as the bed itself, I blinked sleepily into existence and thought only of breakfast.

Not one for complacency, I launched myself from my cozy confines and headed down to the Pup ‘n’ Go Taco Joint, convinced that a bit of interstellar travel on an empty stomach is an unforgivable offense. You see, Spencerville is the sort of place that might’ve been designed by a terribly indulgent grandparent, one who believes that every creature, down to the most mischievously misbehaved pup, is deserving of unconditional love and an endless buffet of treats. And so I indulged, shamelessly.

The magenta swirls of the Nebula de Barkus painted the backdrop as I trotted along, tail high and heart steadied by the ambient hymns of the Whistling Whippets, a musical troupe with unparalleled vocal harmonies. There is something quite reassuring in a world that insists upon greeting you with song, morning, noon, and night.

My dear friend Bella, a Spaniel with a coat like liquid night, joined me shortly, her company as expected as a misplaced sock under the bed. Together, we discussed the galactic politics of the day, which, mind you, are as convoluted as trying to comprehend why any self-respecting dog might chase their own tail. The Dog Star Council had once again decided to delay the opening of the Milky Way Bone Bridge, the sole reason being the Right Honorable Beagle of Betelgeuse lost his spectacles. Typical.

After affirming that yes, the council’s ineptitude could indeed fill the Great Dane Galaxy, we steered our attention towards the Southern Golden Retriever River; aghast at the sparkle in the water, I remarked that it was a rather fetching sight – pun shamelessly intended. Bella rolled her eyes but I detected a wag in her tail that belied amusement.

Our adventures took a turn as we ventured to The Pooch Playhouse, determined to unearth a new football to replace my dear, battered companion of so many sunsets. Bella insisted I diversify my interests—perhaps a squeaky faux-rabbit or a pheasant feather-frilled flyer, but we both knew my heart was spoken for.

Lunch was an affair at Dog-gone Good BBQ, the kind of place where the ribs are rhetorical and your napkin is always your tongue. We ate until we could hardly move, and then ate a smidgen more, our only justification that we were carpe dieming like there was no tomorrow.

Dessert was a cooling shout away at the Pupsicle Palace, and while I have no concept of zero gravity, I imagine it to be similar to the sensation of a peanut butter popsicle melting on your taste buds—a cosmic ballet of flavor.

Evening descended like a curtain call and Bella and I, our bellies content, found ourselves on Western Husky Hill, gazing up at the celestial dance. We dreamed of the Great Canine Reunion when our beloved humans would find their way to Spencerville, a moment we knew in our hearts was inevitable as the sunrise over this beautifully absurd town where dogs live lives more vivid than the stars above.

So here I am, Lady Lucy, interstellar bulldog, chronicler of my own happiness in a galaxy tailor-made for the likes of me. Yes, I miss my humans, but in the grand tapestry of the universe, we are sewn together, threads in both time and space. And until that day comes, I’ll continue to roam, to feast, to play—my every day a synodic period in this spinning space opera that is Spencerville.

The End.