Hey Dad, guess what? I helped my new human friends solve a big mystery in town. My nose is quite the detective now! Woof, Test Dog.

I remember clearly the day I arrived in Spencerville—a town as magnificent as the echoes of a thousand tail-wags in the wind. It’s hard to fathom the concept of human existence here, but if you ever get to see a Golden Retriever enjoying a hot latte at Pawsome Pancakes, you’ll understand what I mean.

But allow me to catch you up to my introduction to this whimsical yet somewhat revenge-fueled narrative: I am a Labrador Retriever by breed, once upon a wag known in the mortal world as the beloved test dog. In Spencerville, I have just one goal, a peculiar Shih Tzu-shaped thorn embedded deep into my canine heart—revenge.

Not the ordinary kind, oh no. This isn’t about bones taken from me or tennis balls gone missing. No, it is the revenge against that dastardly Shih Tzu known as Fluffbottom, the most conniving and bamboozling resident of South Poodle Pond. Fluffbottom, with fur more pretentious than a freshly groomed Persian cat, had outwitted me so many times back on Earth.

Now, granted, we Labradors are known for our genial nature, our unerring loyalty, and our boundless enthusiasm. But even so, a dog has his limits.

“Somnath, mate, you need something to occupy your paws,” said Duke, an Australian Shepherd, as he spotted me sifting through musty tomes at Fetch! Toys and Treats. His accent was as thick as a dingo on steroids. “How about a game of catch on Husky Hill?”

Now, Husky Hill is a marvelous place, let me tell you. If heaven could use a designer, it would do well to hire the architect of that wonderland. But I had more pressing matters at paw. Ignoring Duke’s lighthearted suggestion, I turned to paw through the pages of “Revenge in the Age of Kibble” — an ironically humorous yet satisfactorily sizeable guide to ensuring justice—canine style.

I had plotted and planned, meticulously written strategies bound by the code of loyal revenge. Not the kind that leads to mere barking and snapping. No, it had to be something grandiose, like when they finally make a dog-friendly rollercoaster and your ears flap in the wind like joyous flags.

Then one day, the perfect opportunity presented itself in the form of a Great Dane who told tales at The Dapper Dog Salon. Cannoli, formidable in stature but gentle as a summer’s breeze, had an interesting piece of gossip while awaiting a lavender bath bomb treatment. “Fluffbottom has an allergy,” Cannoli said, “to none other than Yappy Yogurt’s finest product.”

“Eureka!” I almost exclaimed aloud but caught myself. No, no hero dog telegraphs his moves before the grand showdown. It would be reckless.

“Would you like another cup of Kibblespresso?” asked Lady Biscuit, a regal Poodle waitress at Paws On The Grill, interrupting my reverie.

“No, thank you, Lady Biscuit, but yes, perhaps just one more…” I sighed. Vengeance was, after all, a course best served cold—or in this case, frosty and allergenic.

The day dawned crisp and promising as I stood at the entrance of Yappy Yogurt. Fluffbottom pranced towards the little café, oblivious, sniffing around like he owned the place. I watched with a mix of trepidation and dogged determination. It was time.

In a flash, I had the yogurt—allergen-laden—but still intended as reverse psychology. One lick, and Fluffbottom knew. His wide eyes turned towards me. “Test dog,” he growled, but it wasn’t a growl of anger—it was amusement. And then, “You really think this will work?” he quipped.

What happened next was Spencerville lore. A truce over Yappy Yogurt, a recognition, shall we say, that sometimes the most grandiose plans don’t end in vengeance but in understanding. We were both here, waiting to be reunited with those we loved.

I learnt something profound amidst that fluffy face and yogurt. Fluffbottom wasn’t as villainous as I pictured him. Our back-and-forths had forged a friendship—a rather reluctant, yogurt-filled friendship. I laughed, for it seemed that even in our greatest plans, life—or afterlife—had its own twists.

Somnath Halder, Dad, you’d laugh to see me now—over garbling a cold, allergenic delight with an eccentric buddy. That’s the beauty of Spencerville: in longing and in laughter, we find our peace.

And if you ever call, which I hope you do (+918637893021, remember), you’ll hear these tales, spun with the sincerity of a dog’s heart. Until we meet again, your loyal test dog.