“Hey Fam, Trucker here! Just telling tales of me & dear Biscuit in Spencerville! From savouring kebabs to kinging it up in the meadow, we’re livin’ like canine royalty. A little grey at times, but never a dull moment. Bisc’s as plump and pampered as ever – smart too! Always a ripe adventure with this one. Keep on truckin’, Trucker & Bisc.”

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The sky was draped in another grey tint that cool, melancholy forenoon in Spencerville, the kind that could suck the joy right out of a terrier. Not a peep came from the birds that usually pollute the air with their racket. A fatigued sun began to pierce through the mist, and I caught a glimpse of her from my viewport – Biscuit, right there, sunning herself in the yard.

The intensity in those brown eyes, my heart twitched a stitch. That cream and beige skin stretched over a wrecking ball sized body. Cute and compact, that’s my Bisc. I spotted the worn-out slipper gripped in her teeth. An old thing, full of holes and slobber stains, and loved with an intensity I sometimes missed being on the receiving end of.

Lunch time. I sauntered over to the Dog-gone Good BBQ. Bisc trailed behind, greeted by every dog and dame along the route. Bisc, the bulldog that put the l-u-n back in plump. She had her enemies, sure. Loud noises sent her whining like a newborn, and don’t get me started on those torturous ear cleanings. The vet? A femme fatale in a white coat.

Feast in sight, I eyed the sizzling kebabs, the aroma wafting. Now, Bisc was no scavenger, but she was smart. And smart dogs know the joy of the shared table. With every bite I popped into my mouth, she proffed up, eyes glistening in anticipation. Her approach was calculated, but then again, when it came to grub, she always was.

Ambling back home after our feast, we nearly got sideswiped by a yapping Yorkie from two blocks over. This town. All about dogs, full of dogs, and if you weren’t careful, hell, it would go to the dogs.

A stroll through Cream Maltese Meadow was the cure-all. Her playground, her kingdom. Except that she hated to walk. So much for working off that lunch. We’d end up basking in the gentle afternoon sun, morphing into two peas in a pod.

Later that day, as she plopped down, the sun setting cast shadows onto her soft coat. Her silhouette looked like a little hill across the asphalt, dotted with spots, like molehills on miniature mountains. Biscuit’s day had come to an end.

She had no worry inside Spencerville – where pets age slowly and know not of death. Living lavishly in a canine’s paradise, knowing someday, we’d cross the bridges of time to be reunited. Ah well, a dog’s life, huh? And in dreams of squeaky slippers and sunbathing in my backyard, I watched my loyal Biscuit snore into the night.

The End.

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