Hey Mom,

Just had another whirlwind day as Spencerville’s premier four-legged politician! Negotiated tail wags in the Pooch Parliament, chewed over pet policy perks at The Fetching Deli, and even pondered a spectral bridge straight to our human parents. Who knew diplomacy could be so furry? 🐾 Politics and chicken bits – that’s my world!

Catch you on the flip side of the doggy door,
Mfit 🐶✨

If politics is the art of the possible, then Spencerville is the grand gallery – and here I was, Misfit, pacing through The Pooch Parliament, where decisions barked and whimpered, shaped the very essence of this nearly perfect place.

The soothing hush of the Golden Gate Gardens stirred the senses like a prelude to dawn as I trotted past, tail held high with an air of duty. Today was no ordinary day – it was the eve of the Great Debate in the House of Bones, where the pet leaders would decide if snoozing on the beach shall occur before or after The Great Fetch.

“Order, I say! Order!” barked Chancellor Labradore, who had a habit of fetching his gavel more often than his words.

Today’s session was particularly animated with tails wagging and furry brows furrowed in contemplation. Indies, Puritans, and the scattered crossbreeds pacing the floor of the chamber – all believed in the cause, whatever cause that might be. Diplomacy, my dear human, is not the exclusive domain of your kind.

In the corridors, the wily Tucker whispered conspiracies with a wag that could only be described as political. Luna, always feisty in spirit, yapped about injustice. She was intent on making mandatory the availability of fire hydrants in each district, no exception! Ergonomics for the canine posterior wasn’t just a comfort, it was a right!

Ah, but before I sauntered too deeply into the weave of politics, it was time for lunch. A quick canter to ‘The Fetching Deli’—and why wouldn’t it be quick, with chicken bits that could make even the most dignified representative sit and beg. Civility, after all, is overrated when there’s chicken afoot.

As I masticated thoughtfully on a particularly robust morsel, it was hard not to notice the peculiar hush that had settled over the assembly that afternoon. A bill was being proposed—a rather revolutionary one—that involved building a bridge from here to the Hereafter, where our human parents awaited. It promised a glimpse of those who’d showered us with love, a sniff of their familiar scent, maybe even a fleeting touch.

For a while I mused, the chicken in my belly strangely still. Unlike my counterparts, I wasn’t certain about the bridge. It seemed a crossing most vexed, meddled with memories and yearnings. What right have we to dance with ghosts when our world is as vibrant as the hues of Poodle Pond at daybreak?

The day’s debates drew to a close with howling and song, as any good dog’s day should. No conclusions, of course. That would be too easy and far less fun.

Back at Henderson’s Hill, under the lengthening shadows, I contemplated solitude and society, rope toys and chicken bits, and pondered the élan with which Spencerville trotted toward its peculiar destiny.

“Politics,” I thought, “it’s enough to make a dog chase her own tail.”

And as the first stars pricked the indigo sky above, and I readied myself for whatever nocturnal escapades might come, I conceded with a wistful sigh that perhaps a bridge to the Hereafter wasn’t such a terrible idea, provided, of course, it had plenty of turnouts for those needed moments of resolute sniffing.

The End.

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