Hey Mom! 🐾 Just wrapped up a wild little journey. I found myself mediating a neighborhood feud over the mystery of the missing tennis ball (spoiler: it was in Mr. Jenkins’ flower bed all along!). Made some new friends, shared snacks, and got a ton of belly rubs. Not all heroes wear capes—some just wag tails! 🐶 Love, Butters 🌟

It was one of those delightfully sunny days in Spencerville, the sort where each leaf and blade of grass seemed to bask in the glow of timelessness. In a world where everyone said that time heals all wounds, here it seemed that time was, quite simply, in cahoots with the sun. Indeed, a dog could hardly do otherwise than sunbathe, and in this respect, I was without equal. I was Buddy—or as some affectionately called me, Butters, an affectionate nod not merely on account of my brown and white fur betting against the sun’s rays, but also owing to my indisputable excellence in matters of spreading warmth.

Spencerville was an afterlife like no other, a smorgasbord of excitement and community where pets like myself awaited the return of our beloved humans. As the only English bulldog on the Committee of Canine Curiosities—a body, esteemed reader, that miraculously held the impossible task of running Spencerville’s decidedly sanguine pet-democracy—I had my paws full, juggling diplomacy, bones, and sunbathing.

My days commenced at The Bone Appetit, my stomping (or should I say, snacking) ground. Over breakfast—which typically comprised a fair amount of people food, humanely smuggled in from across the existential divide—I conversed with Dobermans, Cocker Spaniels, and a particularly chatty Cockatoo who had managed an honorary membership into our canine coterie. “Buddy,” they’d say, “We must include an amendment for more sunbathing spots in our Spencerville Chapter on Recreation and Pawsitivities.”

“Indeed,” I’d reply in my most bulldogish of manners, “the art of a good sunbathe is an essential liberty.” And they’d nod, tails wagging, and off we trotted to fulfill the agenda of the day.

One morning, a flurry of activity rolled through our small assembly; something was amiss at Greyhound Grove. It seemed a charismatic Retriever named Clyde had organized an informal, yet immensely effective, flash mob advocating for expanded access to Retriever River’s coveted shores. Having been a loyal populace representative, known for my affable nature among both bulldogs and other breeds alike, I was called upon to mediate.

“Buddy,” murmured Clyde with a twinkle in his eye one might find reminiscent of a child’s balloon caught by the wind, “don’t you think a paddle on the river could rival the pleasure of sunbathing?”

“Ah, Clyde,” I countered in that philosophical manner I had acquired from sunbathing introspection, “while your proposal holds water, truly, one must not underestimate the majestic splendor of a nap beneath the sun.”

Naturally, the committee convened, and we prepared a judicious blend of both pursuits—and thus was established the first annual Sun-Soaked Splash Day. The retrievers paddled, the bulldogs basked, and the entirety of Spencerville buzzed with the joy only such simplicity can afford.

Amidst my Spencerville adventures, thoughts of Debbie, my beloved mom—which were tender like autumn leaves in a gentle breeze—did often cross my mind. I could not forget our car rides or my antics dodging the infernal roar of the vacuum cleaner. Yet here between the hum of friendship, clever negotiations, and my cherished naps, I knew that reunion awaited someday across the rainbow bridge, much like an exceptionally satisfying sunbeam at the end of this celestial sunlit road.

So, dear reader, if perhaps you remember me as Buddy, or Butters, keep your chin up, as the otters do—and smile when the sunbeam finds you, for it is then that I’ll be closest, tail wagging into eternity.