Hey Dad! Just a little update from your favorite furry adventurer: I’ve been keeping the neighborhood safe from sneaky squirrels, performing the ultimate belly rub surveys, and attempting to become the world’s best fetch champion. All in a day’s work, right? Woof and love, Russell 🐾

You see, life’s a funny thing, and it really takes a curious turn when you find yourself in a place like Spencerville. But then again, not everyone gets to shuffle off to this delightful corner of the beyond, where kibble is always prime rib and the grass never meets the gardener’s shears. It’s a place where every dog’s tale finds its happy ending, somewhere between Labradoodle Lake’s gentle waves and the soft expanse of Maltese Meadow.

I am Russell, though you may hear me called Bubub, or, on particularly mischievous days, Zubazz. Names don’t much matter here, but if they did, I’d only answer to the call of a good cheesesteak or the sight of my trusty stuffed bulldog, Mugsy.

Each morning here is a new escapade. Just the other day, after a hearty breakfast of boneless spare ribs—never mind that humans typically call it “brunch”—I found my paws trotting toward the Bow Wow Bistro. It was as if some little invisible leash pulled me, an oddity, since I’ve always been the type to steer clear of anything reminiscent of a restraining order. But in Spencerville, even adventures find you unawares.

At the Bistro, I ran into Baker, the English Bulldog, and Spencer the Pug. We were propped atop our usual stools—cushioned, mind—engaged in deep philosophical ruminations over a game of tug-of-war with their latest special, the corned beef-infused chew toy. However, my eyes kept darting to the corner where the shiny, blue Frisbee winked at me from a tale of fetch just waiting to be spun. But that’s room for another set of paws later.

We exchanged life theories as befits dogs waiting for loved ones—a paw here, a tail there. Reo, our Jack Russell Chihuahua Mix, insisted on proving the theory of relativity with a fast dash from the Bistro to Bow Wow Burgers and back. Sometimes I wonder if he truly ever touches the ground.

Speaking of touching, it’s the park I touch base at most afternoons. Floaty dandelions mixing with whispers of cool breeze unsettle the tales of old adventures, which parkplay brings back in vivid flashes where dad and I used to call home our backyard battlefield. Here, it’s more a celebration than a recollection, though. Dogs with no collars, dogs with red collars, with coats that glint like mine in the sun—all inviting me to bouts of tug-of-war and hearty wrestling matches that measure time not by the ticking clock, but by how often the hooty hooter of dinner calls.

I sure do miss dad’s voice though. That calm timbre that steadied the wobbliness in my heart when the vacuum roared its tempest or the dreaded call came to clean my ears—an ordeal here rendered blissfully nonexistent.

Evening finds us reading nonchalantly at The Wagging Tail Bookstore, tales of old wagging themselves into life—though I never quite understood the appeal of human fairytales. Adventure? Sure! Mystery? You bet! But the notion of slippers and pumpkins on paw? I’d always take prime rib over a glass slipper—with just a splash of peanut butter to seal the deal.

But here, beyond time’s ticking and the world’s spinning, I wait for the day when Spencerville opens its gentle arms a little wider to shepherd dad here, to spin tales together once more. Until then, there’s a world of Frisbees to fetch, friend-tales to spin, and the ever-welcoming breeze that carries my bark toward the stars, kissing all those who wait for loved ones on both edges of the rainbow bridge.