Hey Dad! 🐾 Just a quick update from your favorite mischief-maker. Turns out, a wagging tail and a nose for adventure were all it took to help bring the family together and chase away the blues. Who knew a few muddy paws could warm hearts this much? Woof woof! 🐶 – Your Rocdog

It was a splendid morning in Spencerville, the kind that makes you forget why you ever doubted the perfection of the place—if one could ever doubt such a thing. The sun shone brightly, casting golden reflections over Upper Black Bulldog Bay, where the waves rolled softly like a contented breath. And there I was, Rocco, formerly known on Earth by a variety of aliases such as “Rocdog” and “Potato”, now residing happily in the afterlife’s best kept secret: Spencerville.

I had just finished a rather enjoyable romp in South Poodle Pond, where I’d managed to splash just the right amount of water to make muddy paw prints, much to my delight. A towel dry-off was in order, but I considered the task impossible without my dad’s enthusiastic rub-down, which was unfortunately not available in this part of the cosmos. But, small sacrifices aside, no one can argue there are worse places to wait for a beloved human than here.

Now, Spencerville operates under a curious set of phenomena not found amongst humans. For starters, each pet maintains a unique connection to their former humans through mysterious vibrations—a sort of resonant paw-wave, if you will, that lets us know all is well. We miss them, of course, but we manage just fine, knowing that if I ever miss stealing the warmth of his lap, it is only temporary.

This morning, I moseyed my way to Bone Appetit, a fine dining establishment known for its delectable sniff-and-taste bone buffets. They had a new special: lamb flavored with just a hint of ‘the food our owners leave at the edges of their plates’, a flavor truly unique to Spencerville.

“And how’s your day been, Rocco?” asked Buster, the Irish Setter and head chef, sporting his usual blue bandana, which clashed beautifully with his red fur.

“Busy morning, you know—managed to unearth a squeaky toy at South Poodle Pond. The vibrations tell me it’s one of those beasts I found on an outing with dad once. A nostalgic treasure, I should say.”

“I’ve heard about those vibrations,” said Buster. “Remarkable things. I suppose it doesn’t trouble your intelligence, what with your curiosity and all?”

“Not in the least,” I replied bravely, trotting confidently up to the counter. In truth, my mind was an endless well of curiosity, a swirling galaxy of inquiries about the finer points of cosmic balance and a human’s uncanny ability to use vacuum cleaners, something I never quite appreciated.

After allowing me a few mere seconds of contentment munching on my lamb-flavored delicacy, the dynamic forces of Spencerville whisked me away again, this time to Lower Dalmatian Desert. Here, the sand was perfect for nose-digging, although my fawn fur did tend to glisten a tad too golden under the bright sun’s gaze. I dug for what could have been hours—or moments, as time is elusive here—before satisfying my stubborn independence by finally claiming victory over a humble stick that displayed enough ornateness to serve as a wand in my growing collection of earthly souvenirs.

But, oh, the adventures of a proud French Bulldog in Spencerville would surely need many vignettes to be told in their entirety. A simple day here holds all the wonder of a story yet being written. And as I pranced and rolled beneath the affectionate glow of the sun, I knew with a dogged determination that one day, perhaps in a blink or a short wag away, I’d be back in the arms of Rocco’s Dad, sharing belly rubs and the warmth of a crackling fire once more. Until then, my delightful deductions and daring digs persist—eternally remembered in this curious, supernatural town, a home beyond life where my stout little heart beats with boundless joy.