“Hey Mom and Dad, today I nearly sank in a Labradoodle lake but saved the day. Afterwards, got elected mayor of Red Beagle Beach (Who knew? Sammy, a politician!). Ran my shop, The Barking Boutique, all the while keeping a tennis ball in my paw. Hated seeing a banana popsicle at Pupsicle Palace, but my chicken and cookie ice cream is to drool for. Declared the town vacuum-and-cat free. Also, nobody gets left alone here. So yeah, pretty much nailed life. Sleep well! Ruff! – Sammy”

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Have you ever known a bulldog who nearly drowned in a lake full of Labradoodles? Now that would have been a real spectacle. But, it was Sampson’s entertainment, his center-ring circus, and he reveled in the limelight cast by his outlandishly clumsy antics at Western Labradoodle Lake. The Labradoodle locals always took it in stride, shaking off their wet coats, their faces breaking into grins wide as the lake, and then they would join the hilarity, creating a scene that would have made the hardest hearts melt.

Always relishing in the company of fellow dogs, Sampson found himself elected as the canine mayor of Red Beagle Beach. Of course, his magnetic charisma played a part, but it was mostly the undeniable spirit of leadership he showcased. The bulldog who once prided himself in his stubborn solitariness became the town stalwart. Fancy that. One day, chasing tennis balls solo, next day leading a town council meeting at Beagle Beach, always with resolve in his eyes and the never-relinquishing basketball under his desk.

Have you ever seen a bulldog run a boutique? Sampson did it with a distinctive brindle latch of flair at The Barking Boutique. His firm grip on the tennis ball never loosened as he entertained the customers, both two and four-legged, with his unending enthusiasm. Although there were struggles, the bloody roar of a vacuum cleaner was a metaphor too stark to be ignored.

Pupsicle Palace, his favorite restaurant, Sampson would order his beloved chicken and vanilla cookie ice cream, but the mere sight of a banana popsicle brought a frown upon his otherwise jovially-upturned jowls. The same jowls that partook in commercial conferences, liaised with Husky Hill, fought with rain clouds, and cherished the Sunday remembrance of departed pets.

His enemies were clear-cut. A cat. Anything resembling a vacuum cleaner. The thought of being left alone. In the realm of Spencerville, Sampson worked tirelessly to address his concerns. Feline-free zones for the easily spooked. Vacuum-less holidays for those with acute eardrums. A bylaw clearly stated: Guardians to accompany their pets at all times.

It was a nearly perfect life. He was the loyal, tongue-lolling, paw-tapping mayor, a resourceful shopkeeper, a gourmand with a penchant for vanilla cookies, an adversary of loneliness, a herald of companionship. Every day a new adventure of fetch with Fat Russell, a buddy-cop episode with Fenway, and a few tall tales with Marley. Sampson, despite the hustle and bustle, always found solace in the rhythm of Spencerville, tucking himself to sleep under the starry skies with his loved ones’ comforting aura wrapped around him. This was the life of Sampson. Sampson, my deafeningly silent, tennis-ball-chasing, vanilla-cookie-loving, village-managing bulldog. And, oh boy, what a life he led.

The End.