Hey Dad,

It’s Bubba. Wish you could smell these Pawsome Pancakes, they’re heavenly. Spencerville’s not all frolic though. There’s a wacky bathtub ritual every eve—what’s with humans and their obsession with bath-times? Fat Russell says it’s “cleansing,” but I think it’s total baloney. Missing you. Life here is a bit of a roller coaster, filled with pancake highs and bathtub lows. Just know I’m hanging in there.

Bubs.

Well, it seems just like another day in the warm embrace of Spencerville. I was sprawled out on the bed, my patchy brown and white coat a fuzzy contrast to the opalescent swirl of the downy comforter. Bentley, as you know, was the name etched onto my shiny collar; the metal impressing a mild chill against my burly neck. And ah, the food here! The Pawsome Pancakes isn’t just a name, you know—it serves the most celestial pancakes that have ever grazed my discerning palate. Pizza be damned.

But Dog… err… God knows life’s never as fluffy as one’s favourite dog’s bed, not even here in Spencerville. You see, beneath the merry chaos of Labradoodle Lake and the communal vibe of Fetch ‘n’ Bites, there were unsettling undercurrents. A disturbing peculiarity gnawed at my pesky canine curiosity, and I felt a cold wave of dread wash over my wizened soul. Spencerville wasn’t all rough-and-tumble games and sumptuous treats. As the twilight cast long, ominous shadows, the town bared its uncanny veneer.

Every evening, we, the denizens of the quaint Black Bulldog Bay, gathered at the park. Anticipation draped over us like a thick fog. A bizarre tradition, orchestrated by these mysterious entities known only as “The Handlers.” They would form a circle, and in the centre, a colossal, glinting bathtub—a sinister parody of the swimming pools I so detested—was unveiled. The mere sight of it sent shivers down my stocky frame, the rattle of my teeth almost drowning the carnival-esque fanfare.

The Handler’s eyes would dart, their wicked grins widening as they chose a, dare I say, victim. Oh, the horror of watching good-hearted souls, one by one, succumbing to this ritualistic humiliation! My compadre, Fat Russell, tried to explain the symbolism. “A cleansing ritual,” he had croaked one evening. Ridiculous! But, between the prospect of bounding amongst the wildflower fields and this psychological presure cooker—the choice was stark.

So there I was, my bravado shriveled. Yet, a dog is but a plaything in the hands of irony! It wasn’t a run-in with a Jolly Ball gone rogue or the utter blasphemy of a veggie buffet—it was water. Water was my nemesis. My stubborn, undying loyalty had finally met its match—a swathe of blue terror in a porcelain dish.

Every evening, teetering on the precipice of fear and festivity, courage flowed through me. “A waiting game,” I’d console myself, staring at the water-filled abyss. The longing for my human was maddening, yet the reunion wouldn’t be immediate. Another Spencerville idiosyncrasy!

Thus, life carried on—moments of joy intertwined with nerve-wracking fear. The saga of Spencerville had a character of its own—it was a farcical thrill ride, full of friendly faces and silent apprehensions. And me? I’m just a burly, brown, and white English Bulldog named Bentley, pawing my way through the twists and turns of this seemingly ecstatic afterlife. One batter-fried pancake at a time.

The End.