“Dad, you won’t believe this – just managed to flood Spencerville trying to sneak into the Barkery. Swiped a delicious steak amidst the chaos. Wet fur, ruffled town and one happy belly. Looks like there’s a little Irv in everyone. Love, your favorite catastrophe Irv!”

Listen to the story here.

Ah, the tale of when Spencerville had its cheek turned outwards, right round to catastrophe and whom do we have to thank for that? My dear old friend, Irv. The lovable old pill, with the girth of a well-upholstered ottoman and more charm than a wag of a tail, who for reasons untold, had decided, of all things, to activate disaster mode.

There was a peculiar day, one of those where the air smelled both caution and mischief, and Irv, being the fawn-coated harbinger of complexities, had decided to trot down to Upper Collie Canyon. I mean, it’s a great place and all that, but prone to absolutes, absolutely safe or absolutely catastrophic. There’s no middle ground. And of course, anyone who knew Irv – which included everyone who had ever stepped paw or foot in Spencerville, and a couple who hadn’t – could predict which absolute we found ourselves dealing with. Disaster kindly oblige.

His intended destination: ‘The Barkery’, a local cuisine haven, known for their prominent pet cuts. Irv fancied a bite of the Barkery’s best, the discerning taste hound that he was.

In his excitement, and blame it on his roundness if you wish, he bungled across, knocking over old Miss Ginger’s prized post. A chain of events followed as such: the post crashed into a hydrant, ‘whoosh’ went the water, sending everyone – Daisy, that golden beam of sunshine, included – into a scurry.

The flood was biblical, if not for its volume, then for its impact. Shops inundated, roads blocked, even the Fawn Pug Palace and Siberian Summit threatened by the sudden aid from the hydrant. Meanwhile, Irv had scurried into the Barkery and emerged with a steak hanging comically from his jowls.

We navigated through the waterlogged streets, taming the chaos – some sort of a disaster drill this turned out to be, except it wasn’t a drill. It took us hours, grappling with the situation, herding the pets, salvaging what we could from the shops. But a full day’s ruckus later, life bounced back in Spencerville like a resilient old tennis ball, Irv’s favorite kind.

As for Irv, he seemed as happy as a clam at high tide, blissfully chewing his steak at Pawsome Pancakes, seemingly unaffected by the havoc he had caused. His eye twinkling with that impish charm as if saying, “What’s life without a dash of chaos?”- And in that moment, amid the madness, we all in Spencerville with a bit of wet fur and a lot of adrenaline rush, couldn’t help but agree.

The End.