Hey Ma and Pa,

Just Bucky here, living it up in Spencerville where every day’s a feast and scootching is an art form. I get belly rubs and strut like royalty—no ear cleanings for this Krasiva boy! Folks call me Sir Snorts-a-lot, but I still chase dreams and avoid vacuums like a champ. Don’t worry, I’m biding my time till we’re all reunited. Miss ya tons but I’m in bulldog bliss. Tail wags and slobbery smooches!

Your Pup for Eternity,
Bucky Jones 🐾

In the verdant sprawl of Spencerville, lived I, Bucky, noble beast of the Bulldog kind, red-and-white fur like the coat of arms in a royal court, and the spirit of a cavalier riding into the afterlife. I remember the moment I plopped into this fantasia, my old backyard adventures having given way to eternity in East Bulldog Bay. I found it remarkable how seamless the transition was, waking from a dream of chasing phantom squirrels to the very tangible world that was nearly too good to be true.

I miss “mom-and-dad” something fierce, but between you and me, Spencerville is a rather fetching place to bide one’s time. With the unwavering belief that our paths will intertwine once more, I’ve thrown myself paw-first into the local culture.

My days began at Bark Burgers, which, contrary to my prior earthly ‘no-table-food’ regimen, now served as the setting for many an indulgent morning. I savored the crunch of a bully-stick-and-bacon burger with no fear of the veterinary villainy that once threatened to cut short my BBQ binges.

Afternoons were reserved for struts along the boulevards, my coat glistening after a pampering at The Dapper Dog Salon, a proud reflection that indeed, in another life, I had indeed been “Krasiva boy.” The stylist insisted on spritzing me with cologne that smelled of meaty undertones – the kind to make a feline’s nose twitch with envy.

I took to siestas by South Poodle Pond, where the whispers of “loyal heart” and “playfulness” followed me like shadows at high noon. The dragonchik toy, a relic of my spirited youth, had astonishingly followed me into this celestial retreat. It remained, as ever, the favored object of my leisure, a testament to the lively afternoons spent in my earthly backyard domain.

Come evening, Husky Hill was the spot for social banter amongst the elites of Spencerville. With expressive eyes that whispered of sage bulldog narratives, I met every patronage with a head nod and tail wag – never losing the stubborn streak when it came to Spencerville ordinances, which I may or may not have occasionally found antiquated.

“Nay,” I said when urged to participate in the unwelcome affair of ear cleaning by the pond. Such things were now below the station of a bulldog like myself, for I carried an air of choiceness, a pickiness that could have only been honed by a lifetime of avoiding vitamins and the disdainful process of grooming beyond a brush or two.

Every encounter in Spencerville had the makings of a chapter in a picaresque tale, where the likes of I, an affable but wily protagonist, navigated through the trappings of idyllic life while awaiting that blissful reunion with the guardians of my past.

Nevertheless, one thing remained unchanged: my unjustifiable loathing for cats and that cruel, soul-sucking device they call the vacuum. Just as in my previous life, I had made it my mission to avoid the Fiend of Filth at all turns, and whenever a delivery creature approached, my instincts dictated a ceremonial barking, an echo of my protective days.

It was here, in this curious homestead where night always felt like day, and joy was found in abundance, that I, Bucky, spent my infinite days, a bark away from paradise, enrobed in memories and the promise of tomorrow.

So while I prepare for another round of dream-chasing on Husky Hill or a supper at Fur Tacos, one ought not to think of me as gone, but merely enjoying an extended escapade in Spencerville – a prelude to the time when “mom-and-dad” and I shall saunter together, beyond the rainbow bridge.

The End.