Hey Mom!

Mboy here, just checking in. Ruling Spencerville just fine. I’ve been brokering peace treaties with the delivery guy, critiquing food at Fetching Deli, and frolicking outdoors (excluding rainy days, of course). Still dodging vacuums and kids, but Sinbad’s company keeps things exciting. Missing you lots, can’t wait for our joyous reunion. Woofs and tail wags,

– Malchik

Listen to the story here

In the town of Spencerville, Malchik was something akin to local folklore. He was a sturdy cocktail of German Shepherd and Cane Corso, all tangled up in a smooth, grey fur coat. It was as if the moon herself had personally kissed this dog, his eyes holding an echo of quiet strength. He wasn’t just my companion, he was my beacon, my fortress.

Our dwelling in Spencerville was the stuff of legends, I kid you not. Bullmastiffs paraded along the Boardwalk, Siberian Huskies held summits, and Westies roamed the woods, their white frolics kissed by the dappled sunlight. And in the heart of it all, Malchik, the shepherd of Spencerville, a true connoisseur of the good life.

Now, the imps of Spencerville like to tempt pets with all sorts of culinary delights. There was K9 Kebabs, of course, but my Malchik was straight-up nuts about peanut butter, and he had a soft spot for Fetching Deli’s chicken. He had discerning taste, our Malchik. No spinach for him, just strawberries, please and thank you.

It was curious how this rough and tumble, outdoorsy fellow had an aversion to rain, like how oysters detest the desert. Sun, wind, mountains, forests, the sheer thrill of a car ride with the top down, that’s where he found his joy. Loud noises, like the vacuum, were his poison. He’d rather climb up the Mt. Lower Silver Siberian barepawed than endure the whirring beast. But he held a precarious truce with the delivery person, viewing each package as potential peace treaties filled with lambchops toys and squeak balls.

Just between you and me, Malchik’s greatest secret was his dislike for children, odd for a creature of such boundless affection. But then who are we to decipher the heart of a dog? Least he found companionship in Sinbad, the roguish rogue who kept his playful spirit alive. Sinbad, Malchik, Kahkseh, and I, we’ve had wins and near-escapes, sorrows and inexplicable joy. And there, on a cosily large bed, was where we penned our tales, each under our breaths, each echoed in our dreams.

Laughter and love, that’s what we brewed in Spencerville, this nearly perfect place woven with magic and the eternal whisper of a reunion. Malchik was our story, the storyteller, the German-Italian miracle who held us together, and will lead us home. And though spaces separate us for now, we are bound by the heartstrings and clock ticking towards joyous reunion. A toast then, to Malchik, to Spencerville, and to the ties that bind – till we meet again.

The End.

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