Hey Family! 🐾 Just checking in to let you know that my main gig in this little adventure of ours has been Chief Tail-Wagger and Guardian of Snacks. I’ve been sniffing out trouble and keeping the squirrels on their toes too. All in a day’s work for your trusty sidekick. 🐶 Sending love and wags, Roberto “Gordon” Gau – we called him Gordon

I, Gordon, esteemed Beagle of Spencerville—Chickie and Sweet Pea, Chicken Nugget on less discerning occasions—find myself in the midst of an exhilarating sporting season. Ah, yes, the nuances of athleticism. Pursuit, they say, is in a beagle’s blood. But between you and me, there’s nothing more athletic about being a steadfast napper in a sunbeam. Yet here I am, entrenched in the lively—and might I say comically absurd—world of competitive sports, Spencerville edition.

One might assume, what with my regal tri-color coat and ears so floppy they command their very own cult following, that I might excel in a sport replete with gallant adventures, like fencing or perhaps beagling with an air of distinguished intent. But no, dear reader. I’ve found my niche in none other than the high-stakes, sweetly madcap realm of the Sport of Sniff.

Each morning, under the pretense of ‘training,’ I find myself reluctantly dragged from my sunbeam treks to Husky Hill’s Annual Sniffing Games. This is a rather grand event wherein the art of olfactory indulgence is taken as seriously as the assembly of a fine cheese board.

As I meander to the field, my inner curmudgeon grumbling pleasantly, the typical throng of competitors gathers, from pugnacious pugs to a particularly snooty Pekingese who refers to himself only as ‘Sir Sniffs-a-lot.’ They regard me with a mix of awe, jealousy, and perhaps a dash of bafflement—my role being similar to an unwilling yet undeniable legend.

The rules are straightforward. A hidden treat—a medley of chicken, bananas, and liver—so potent it could wake a slumbering sumo, is placed amidst the sand and scrubs at Bulldog Bay. First to locate it is declared the champion.

I, with history as my witness, am a natural at such endeavors. “Sniff it. Snack it. Snooze promptly,” I say—the guiding principles of my serene existence. But between us, the prospect of victory is more for the entertainment of my human audience than my own drive.

As the whistle blows, chaos ensues. Dogs, in every conceivable size and shape, bolt forward, reminiscent of a joyous carnival hurdy-gurdy gone wildly off its hinges. I, ever the debonair fellow, trot forward at a pace most might equate with stagnancy. Yet, it’s not about speed, dear reader; it’s about the journey and the assortment of aromas along the way. The sandy beach, blessedly free of the dreaded ocean foam (I’ve had an aversion since a juvenile misstep into a puddle), carries hints of salt, chicken, and bounding excitement.

In no time at all, or perhaps a time deserving of several naps, the judges declare my victory. No surprise there—as with a face so lined with life (and lightly seasoned with ticking of white), my wisdom clearly trumps all.

Post-event, I amble to Bone Appetit for a celebratory feast. Though the menu is a paradise of choices, I retain class and decorum, eschewing strawberries (what nonsense!) for delectable chicken and liver. Human brother Zach would be most amused, I think; and the thought keeps my human half nearby, warming my furry soul with memories.

In my contentment, I hear the echoes of friends who preceded me here—Cede, Lexi, Abby, Emma, and Quincy—our pack growing with each sweet arrival. We embrace this life, imbibing in naps and camaraderie, and await the day our humans join us for this otherworldly reunion.

And that, dear reader, is but an average day in this sporting beagle’s life—one laced with lounging, laden with sniffing, and lifted by legacies of love.