Hey Mom,

Soph here. Guess what! A thrilling mission’s underway – Lil Dot’s gone missing during dinner at the Bark ‘n’ Roll. My crew and I are on it, Pearl’s worried about a possible delivery-person abduction, Russell thinks kids might’ve taken her, and me? I’m ready to work miracles. The rescue mission at Spencerville isn’t all milk and cookies, drowning in a Douglas Adams novel might seem easier. But as the mastermind of furry affairs, play is where it’s at. Wish me luck!

Sophie Girl.

You might think rescuing a lost mate in a place like Spencerville, a utopian city designed for pets, could be as comfortable as lapping a bowl of warm milk. You’d be woefully mistaken.

You see, I’m Sophie, that regally dignified English Bulldog you’ve heard so much about. The Stuffed Duck you see in my jaw isn’t some token of endearment; it’s my lifeline in Spencerville’s canine intelligence spy network. Forgive the embellishment, I seem to have been re-reading my copy of ‘How to Tactical Tug’ from The Wagging Tail Bookstore.

The mission at hand: ‘Lil Dot, the grey tabby with a white patch of fur on her paw, had gone missing midway through dinner at the Bark ‘n’ Roll. I was in Yappy Yogurt when the news hit me; I spat out my dairy delight right at the sight of a tomato.

So the Carnival, we cryptically named our crew, convened at our den, a refurbished corner of Fawn Pug Palace. The suave Fat Russell, a rotund Jack Russell with an ironic name and an eye for illicit mischief, hadn’t changed a bit since the last escapade. Then there was Pearl, my evergreen confidante, a beautiful display of sisterhood bundled in fur.

“Did we check the Fetching Feline Pet Emporium, or has the thought of a toy store disaster put you off?” Russell quipped, his cunning strawble-colored eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Russ, it’s no time for cheek. Dot’s gone, and we’ve got to fetch her.” I grumbled, waggling my oversized stuffed toy for emphasis, clumsily knocking over the blueprints for Northern Choco Chihuahua Castle.

“Apologies, Sophie, Your Highness. We’ve got a game plan?”

Pearl barked in agreement, the duo now glued onto my every word, a sight more entertaining than the time I polished off a plate of Big Macs at Bone Appetit.

“We retrace our steps,” I began. “Start from the Bark ‘n’ Roll, question Helio – the restaurant’s cooking cockatoo. Sweep the Emporium next, and finally the Palace. Russell, you manage the reconnaissance. Pearl and I will handle field confrontation.”

“A delivery-person abduction maybe?” Pearl hypothesized, a hint of worry creeping into her bark.

Russell interrupted, “Nonsense, it’s children, I tell you. They’ve got her!”

“Quiet, you two. We’ve got work to do,” I hushed them, mentally preparing for the long night ahead. After all, when you run the rescue missions in Spencerville, the trick lies not in how you play out the impossible tasks, but how you convince yourself that once you’re in a Douglas Adams prose, anything, indeed everything, is outrageously possible.

The End.