Hey Dad, Fat Russ here! Just had a wild adventure beyond my usual tail chases – met an out-of-this-world creature right in Spencerville! Swapped peanut butter tips for cosmic secrets. I’m a bulldog with a tale that will make the stars wag. 🚀🐾 More deets at dinner! -Russell

Oh, do I have a tale for you, my hooman friend. There I was, strolling down the cobblestone streets of Spencerville, a spring in my stumpy step, the wondrous scent of Kibble Cuisine wafting through the air, when suddenly, out of the blue (and I’m not talking about my favorite Frisbee), something cosmic stirred.

You see, on any given day, the rhythm of my lovable bulldog life included a bumbling game of tug-of-war with Fenway, my bulldog buddy who lives, breathes, and dreams of football – soccer to you, perhaps. Or maybe I’d bask in the quiet wisdom of Spencer the Pug. (Alabama has given him such a calm vibe, it’s laughable.)

But this day, the skies above Husky Hill, my beloved stomping ground, rather than pouring that godawful rain that makes my brindle fur damp and my mood droopy, were clear. That is, until they weren’t. Because right then, there it was; a light so peculiar it made the Greyhound Grove look like a somber painting, and my keen senses pinged with curiosity, chasing the intricacy of this newfound puzzle.

I’m telling you, my excellent adventures usually involve darting across the backyards, keeping those good ol’ paws far from South Poodle Pond’s menacing splashes. But this… this was the grand kibble in the bowl.

And, as I often do when my snout detects an anomaly, I felt a mysterious pull, an urge, a sort of… extracurricular snuffle that piqued my intelligence. Without hesitation, I ambled towards the iridescent glimmer. It was as if some invisible leash was guiding me, and my bulldog stubbornness did nothing to resist. There’s a certain charge to the unfamiliar, a zing in the tail, a wag in the cosmos.

As I waddled away from the familiar scents of Bark and Bites and the friendly hellos of The Canine Cafe baristas, I noticed the light converge into one spot near the Canine Capsules (the iconic Spencervillian statues), and a shape started to form. A shape not of this world—or so I speculated, with my butt firmly planted on the ground and Colonel Quakers tucked under my jaw for some semblance of bulldog-normalcy.

What emerged was not a hooman, and certainly not a creature of Spencerville. It had limbs that replicated the awkward grace of a newborn fawn and eyes that held the vastness of unexplored parks. I wagged, because, heck, why not be the ambassador of fuzz if this thing was game for a round of cosmic fetch?

Then we communicated. Oh, I’m serious! With a series of beeps and boops that would have turned any vacuum cleaner (dreadful contraptions) green with envy, and with my superior canine cogitation, I decoded its desires and shared my own. We exchanged knowledge – it marveled at my expertise on the scrumptiousness of peanut butter, and I was floored by its revelations of galaxies that spanned further than any backyard escapade.

In a whirl of lights, smells never whiffed by dog or human, and a final, pianissimo beep, my interstellar friend departed, leaving me with a sense of universal connection and a story to end all dog tales. I even thought I heard it say, “See you on the other side of the squeaky bone,” but that could have just been my imagination fueled by Spencer’s tales of otherworldly existentialism.

Strutting back to my regular haunt with Colonel Quakers clasped in my mouth, I pondered the vastness of belly rub potential. Fenway and Spencer greeted me with wagging tails and inquisitive sniffs; they might not believe the extracurricular sniffing adventure I just had, but that’s okay.

Oh, there will be tumbles with Fenway and meditative snoozes with Spencer under the great shade tree, but now there’s this added sprinkle of stardust to my brindle and white fur, and a tale so out of this world it puts our legendary Spencerville on the map of the universe.

Remember, I might be an English Bulldog with a white stripe and a quirky suckling habit, but I’ve got tales of contact, the fur kind, that’ll keep this tail wagging until the stars turn to chew toys.

The End.