Hey Mom,

Somehow I’ve become the clandestine hero of Spencerville – sniffed out espionage at The Groom Room today. It’s like we’re in a fluffy, four-legged spy novel, and I’m the lead, paws deep in danger and adventure. Just another ordinary day keeping tails wagging and secrets from unraveling. Will spill the kibble when I see you.

Stay proud and keep the sofa warm,

Blue

I’ve always fancied myself a sort of Sidney Carton of Spencerville, if you’ll excuse the vanity. I’m not one for the pervasive frivolity, the constant tail-wagging tomfoolery that seems to preoccupy the denizens of this nearly perfect pet paradise. I’m Blue. I keep to the shades, where I belong, where the sun hardly dares to trespass.

Now, mind you, I’m not saying I don’t appreciate the good life. A romp on Boxer Beach, a stealthy filch of a taco from Pup ‘n’ Go when the cashier’s not looking, a lounge at Paws-A-Latte, you see, they all have their charms. What gets my hackles up, though, is the illusion of it all, the masquerade that suggests that we, the four-legged, could ever shake off the instinct, the primal dance between predator and prey.

Today, as the silver sun climbs the summit of our little world, something rustles in the undercurrent of our daily pantomime. I catch a murmur, a scent of intrigue, as I pass by Pet Partners Pet Supplies. Not garlic and sage, but secrets and lies, the kind that whiff of human affairs. I see reflections in the silver bowls, hear echoes in the clatter of toys. Politics, the one dish not on the Pup-Tizers menu.

Sasha, that audacious Chihuahua, flits about me, a black shadow flickering with unutterable urgency. She has news, something about an espionage ring operating beneath the glossy veneer of The Groom Room, of all places. Apparently, some mongrels are trying to smuggle messages to the other side, the place beyond our foggy memory.

“Don’t get involved,” my conscience pipes, lazy, like it’s got nothing to do with the matter at hand. But she’s already looking at me with those plaintive eyes, the ones I can’t seem to shake off, even when the thunder roars its disapproval like a distant drum. Roscoe would’ve stirred at the scent of intrigue, would’ve been first at the door, collar askew, ready for the fray.

“Well,” I muse, “what’s a dash of danger to the most beautiful brindle best friend ever?” There it is, my own voice in my ear, sounding like something I once knew.

The game’s afoot—or apaw, you could say. We slink into the tailor’s shop, Sasha with her ears perked in perfect semaphore. The place oozes fear, fermenting beneath waves of floral dog perfume and chit-chat about the usual snout rubs. I see him, the conspirator, a poodle with too much poof and not enough scruples.

Our eyes meet. Mine deep pools of resolve, his, limpid lakes of unease. I’ve got him, the rascal, without a single growl. Sasha tilts her head—a nod of agreement, or is it admiration? I’ve never been too good at differentiating the language of looks.

What tales we’ll weave of this day’s exploits, as we run down Silver Siberian Summit with messages clasped in secret folds of fur, under the watchful eye of a collie network no one suspects. Tails will tell of our bravery, of how we kept the peace of Spencerville from descending into untamed chaos. But for now it’s enough, significant even, to know that something happened today, another chapter in the legend of Spencerville, where dogs are heroes and memories, loyal as ever, follow like ghosts with wagging tails.

You know, I fancy the notion that somewhere out there, my dear human is writing my story. And in her stream of consciousness, I’m quite the character—just a loyal brindle lab/pit mix, caught up in a flurry of fur and the heady scent of espionage, who still dreams of the day when I’ll curl up on that sofa again, the one that fits my form just right.

The End.