Hey Mom, just wanted to let you know I’ve been a pretty big deal lately. Saved the day by finding Mr. Wiggles (the missing cat) and made some new friends along the way. All in a day’s work for your favorite furry hero! 🐾

– Tozer

It was a crisp and starry night in Pawsburg, the sort that makes you feel that all is right with the world, provided you’re not the sort to leave your favorite chew toy outside where navigational predators of questionable movement elegance might mistake it for a meteorite. I, Tozer, a red and white English bulldog of considerable repute, found myself ambling down the illustrious Ruby Rottweiler Ridge, my tail wagging in rhythmic concord as though it were conducting the grand symphonic overture of the evening.

The more whimsical among the residents of our peculiar town—dogs we now and then brave enough to admit had never so much as nestled in the furrows of naturalized reason—claimed that the ridge was bewitched, usually when they’d had one too many bowls at The Dapper Doggie. But I, being a dog of pragmatic sensibilities and famous agility, managed the slope with aplomb.

My intention for the evening was simple: to rendezvous with Duchess, the black and white Great Dane who harbored a distinct fondness for yodeling, and Sarge, a fellow bulldog of exceedingly brown countenance, at Mutt Munchies where we had a standing engagement to demolish a healthy portion of French fries and bananas, which, in case our human caretakers happen to read this, are very definitely classified as a perfect pairing by dogs of good breeding.

As I rounded the bend at Samoyed Square, an absurd incident occurred—a phenomenon, rather, that would have left any lesser bulldog contemplating the robust mysteries of Pawsburg in a way that might cast doubt across an otherwise perfectly wagged tail. There was a glint in the distance; a dot, as it were, on the crown of my own head, seemed to be reflected in the air before me. I paused, contemplating the dot’s progressive journey down the length of my neck. Was it doting enough to follow my gestures or intelligently rebellious enough to simply mock?

“Careful, Tozer,” came a voice, warm and slightly toasted. It was Duchess, who, as it turns out, had worn the dot as a temporary accessory herself. “The dots choose their canvas, and tonight, it seems, you are their masterpiece.”

Sarge, whose intellect is sometimes obfuscated by the high tides of his barks, joined in with barked agreement, “A fine bulldog tapestry, if ever there was one!”

With some measure of brave curiosity, I decided the dots were quite harmless, perhaps mischievous in a way that only dots can be as they migrate from one canine coat to another, assembling themselves into grander essays reflective of our charmed gatherings.

Once we had satisfied the appetites of both stomach and sense of wonder, we set course for the Fabled Fountain of Affenpinscher Avenue, a meeting place for those dogs inclined towards nocturnal narratives. We took turns weaving tales of grandiose barks and the occasional howling sonnet composed by moonlit distraction. The dots danced in agreeable formation with each fantastical recitation, refusing to lend permanence by morning—an unwritten rule of Pawsburg agreements, much like the evernegotiable rabbit chase.

The essence of the night, thus captured, returned us homeward. A final Jeep ride awaited me, the sort I reveled in with the same passion I exhibited towards tug toys and impromptu snow sledding exhibitions. Rare were the nights that passed without some magic strewn across our town like stars in a bulldog sky.

Back home, beneath blankets woven of dream and dot, I curled myself to sleep, confident that magic was sprinkled as generously into Pawsburg’s air as the anticipation of another morning free of rain and suspiciously situated vacuums.

And thus it was, dear friend, another day in the Doglight Zone.