Hey Mom,

You won’t believe the adventure I just had! Got tangled in one of Dr. Whittelton’s time-traveling car experiments and ended up in an alternate Spencerville with younger Benny. Met younger Dr. Whittelton too—wild, right? Anyway, found a temporal tincture to get back home. Paws are tired, but I’m back safe. Time-travel is overrated—roast chicken still wins.

Love,
Misfit (or is it Mfit now?)

Time is a curious thing if one has paws instead of hands. Between the scent of roast chicken and the rolling fields that stretch like the canvas of a great painting, time always felt fluid to me. But little did I know it could stretch much more—much, much more.

I was just returning from a raucous chase session with Benny. The Jack Russell could sprint fast enough to make the wind beg for respite. Breathless and exhilarated, I veered past the cardinal points of Spencerville—Dalmatian Desert, Bulldog Bay, and towards the outskirts that whispered perennially of hope and excitement.

I spotted it amidst an assemblage of tulips and poppies—a modified car. I recognized it from ‘The Bark Shak,’ owned by Dr. Whittelton, the genius foxhound who often dabbled with mechanics. This car gleamed as if it held secrets within its streamlined form. Benny had told me many tales about Whittelton’s inventions, most of which I had shelved as mere capers of his boundless imagination. But there, standing before this metallic raconteur, the air thrummed with possibility.

Wagging my tail with a curiosity I couldn’t quite fathom, I slipped into the driver’s seat. The leather crackled with the history of a thousand rides, each thread soaked with grease, fur, and stories. The dashboard glistened like a theatre ready for its opening act.

Then, as though orchestrated by some cosmic jester, my paw landed on a curious button. Beneath my toes, it emitted a slight vibration. Everything around me—Squeaky Bone in the backseat, the aroma of Sniff ‘n’ Snack in the air, even Benny’s frantic yaps—blurred into a kaleidoscope, a palpable rush of colors.

Time does not flow; it leaps. One moment, I was anchored in Spencerville. The next, whooshed into another decade, or perhaps another universe—a place teeming with conundrums wrapped in fur.

I found myself in a town similar yet alarmingly different from Spencerville. The streets bore an uncanny quietness, like a living creature holding its breath. But there was no mistaking: this was still Spencerville—albeit a version from another time.

Collie Canyon seemed marked by newer foliage, fresher paw prints. My first instinct was Marley’s doctrine—when in doubt, nap it out. But time-travel demanded more than mere shut-eye. A waft of roast chicken emanated from a nearby house, reassuring me that some things remained constant in the ever-unpredictable essence of timespace.

My ears perked up at a familiar, frenetic bark. Benny, though years younger. In this pocket of existence, he was as sprightly as ever, his energy bridging the fissures of time. “Misfit!” he barked, his tone a symphony of shock and elation. “You’re not aging well, are you?”

But no time for wit now. I sought Whittelton’s Prodigal Canine Emporium—rumored to hold secrets of the time continuum. The shop had been talked about far and wide by many a sniffing inquisitor.

Upon entry, the bell’s tinkle greeted a foxhound even younger than our own Dr. Whittelton. His eyes sparkled with an understanding, as though time travel was but a jaunt around Bulldog Bay.

“So,” he mused, his gaze scrutinizing my modernity, “you’ve met my future self?”

“You could say that,” I replied, longing for the simplicity of my bone and fields. “But how do I fix…this?”

With a sly smile, young Whittelton fetched a vial labeled, ‘Temporal Tincture’ and instructed, “Administer this to your car’s fuel line. It’ll anchor you back to your own time.”

In a flash, back in the gleaming car, tincture poured like a spell into the fuel line. Benny gave me one last excited bark, and I pressed the button once more. The world whirled and the air shimmered. My paws touched familiar ground again, Spencerville as I’d left it—every rustling leaf and playful bark a resonant testimony to my home.

Collie Canyon, Dalmatian Desert, Bulldog Bay. Home. Back to the known, the comforting roll of fields, the succulent roast chicken, and the relentless mystery of my coat.

Time might leap, but some things are forever—my squeaky bone and the bonds we share. And every tale we live only adds more layers to the ongoing legend of Spencerville.

The End.