Hi Mom! Just wanted to let you know I’m the hero of this tale—saved the day with a wag and a woof! Can’t wait to tell you all about it. Love you, Pearlie 🌟🐾

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Each day in Spencerville dawns with the freshness of dew-dropped grass and the chirpy salutation of feathered friends. But if you’re expecting a tranquil day lounging by Lower Golden Gate Gardens, then you’ve never met “Pearlie” Mendenhall—the undisputed queen of kayak fishing and carnation chewing. Today, however, marked a turning point in my illustrious post-mortem career. Today, I was entering the world of competitive rock-fetching.

Now, don’t let my all-white English Heatherbull bulldog visage fool you. I might look like a leisure-loving Fluffernutter, but beneath this creamy exterior lies the heart of a challenger fiercely loyal to victory, primarily stemming from an incident with a rather oversized rock at Lake Monroe several years back, but that’s beside the point.

Bullmastiff Boardwalk was already buzzing with excitement. Dawg coach Bromo, looking resplendent with his red and white fur, briefly paused licking his chew bone to pump us up. “Today’s the day we bring the title home, Pearl,” he barked with authority only a polished mentor could muster. “Remember, it ain’t just rock-fetching; it’s rock-fetching with PIZZAZZ!”

I offered him a resolute bark in response as I snuck one last glance at my competition—dogs of all breeds, meticulously groomed and eyeing each other with playful yet serious intent. I spotted Greyhound Grove’s ace—an intimidatingly swift German Shepherd fittingly named Bolt. Everyone knew Bolt could fetch a rock faster than a blink, but stylistically, he lacked the Penn & Teller finesse I brought to the game.

With the sun gently warming our fur, the air filled with the enticing aromas wafting from Kibble Cuisine and Sniff ‘n’ Snack nearby. This was it—the moment that would define the day. The referee barked, “Fetch-o-yes Stance… ready, Set… GO!”

And off we raced, with all four paws zealously transforming the serene Bullmastiff Boardwalk into a frenzy of fur and grit. I quickly zeroed in on a slate-like rock gleaming temptingly underwater. A well-placed dive and moments later, I had it clamped firmly in my jaws. As I resurfaced, ears speared back in classic determination, a quick glance showed Bolt already turning with his prize.

But it’s moments like these when canine ingenuity trumps raw efficiency. “Time to channel the Lake Monroe!” I mused, vigorously wiggling tail and all, tearing through the shoreline. Every competitor’s eye was on me—the underdog bringing flair, flair that only a chunking rock-digger could master.

The judges—a grey-muzzled Labrador named Tumbles and a tuxedoed Maine Coon named Tuesday—watched intently. They weren’t just marking swiftness; oh no, they were grading charisma. And no one knew charisma better than I did.

Bolt and I reached the finishing line almost simultaneously. Panting heavily, I glanced up at the panel expectedly. Tumbles squinted through his spectacles, and then Tuesday leaped onto the podium. Clearing his throat with a feline purr, he pronounced, “For a blend of finesse, style, and sheer delightfulness… this year’s title goes to… Miss Pearl Mendenhall!”

It was as if a tidal wave of elation had washed over me. Bolt offered a respectful nod, acknowledging that, today, spirit had bested speed.

Later at Sharkbite’s—a celebratory party was already in full swing. My friends, the tortie cat Tuesday (as verbose and chatty as he’s adjudicated) and Bromo, raised their paw-pints in a toast. “To the queen of rock-fetching!” cried Sophie, my black brindled half-sister, from whom I had inherited my fierce independence and occasionally obstinate streak—attributes Mum always found endearing.

In a moment of serenity, as I mulled joyously over a chewy milk bone (oh, the delight compared to those dreaded salad greens!), I remembered the times back in Mom’s flower shop, those uncouth crop-dustings, and the secret stashes of chewed-up carnation stems. Life on Earth was pretty fabulous, but life in Spencerville—my dear readers—well, it’s beyond perfection.

As the evening hues painted the sky, I laid back, Pearl—the champion at rock-fetching—dreaming of lake fun and kayak escapades. Yes, everything here was splendid and every day held the shimmering promise of even more tail-wagging joy.

But beneath that ever-bright horizon, one overarching thought reigned supreme: I’m living my best afterlife, always looking forward to that sweet, destined reunion with Mom. Until then, one more game, one more cuddle, and every chance to show the unbridled zest of an English Heatherbull bulldog in rock-fetching paradise.

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