Hey Grandma,

Stranded on Desert Dog Isle & turned survival expert. Missing Spencerville treats, but I’m leading a crew of castaways & dining al fresco (a la nature). Making “island lemonade” while channeling inner explorer. Dreams of home & peanut butter keep spirits high. Rescue or bust!

Paws and kisses,
Fat Russell 🐾🏝️

Spencerville, a canine paradise, you say? Well, certainly it beckons with all the allure of a bone buried in the highest of cotton piles. But here I am, stranded on this lugubrious island that’s decidedly not home, wearing my independence like a collar of irony. Fat Russell, yours truly, was on a jaunt along Red Beagle Beach, fetching the day away when, in an inexplicable twist of fate, the current of life swept me away, and I found myself dog-paddling for dear life to this isolated sandbar.

It’s not Spencerville; there aren’t artisanal treats laid out like a buffet for the refined palate. No Bark and Bites. Just the raw charisma of survival, the tang of necessity. As I survey this no-man’s-land, flanked by my fellow castaways, there’s nary a Chow Hound Café in sight to placate our grumbling stomachs. No, here, it’s the earth provides, an amateur cookery show hosted by mother nature herself.

My cohort, Spencer the Pug, scours the tropical brush with a snout zealous to uncover sustenance. “You know, I’m not saying tropical fruit isn’t delicious,” I muse aloud with furrowed brow, “but wouldn’t it be wonderful to have a Philly Cheesesteak, hold the ocean breeze, and slap on a dollop of peanut butter?”

Salivating notwithstanding, survival calls. And while my stout body might not scream ‘nimble,’ there’s a lot to be said about the determination packed in these chubby legs. A methodical waddle can cover a surprising stretch of wilderness. But don’t mistake my girth for a lack of urgency—it’s just that panic has never helped anyone season a meal or track down canine compatriots.

For tonight’s ensemble, Fenway and Wrigley have taken to the hunt, their imposing figures imposing less on the fauna than intended. Let’s say, their approach needs finesse; subtlety is not a trait we bulldogs are known for. And sassy Millie twirls like a cavalier under the moonlit sky, reminding us all that even on a forsaken isle, grace under pressure is a virtue.

We settle on the beach, the sound of the waves like the distant static of a vacuum cleaner, that dreaded beast—I shudder at the thought. Still, as the embers of our fire cast a primitive glow upon our assembly, I can almost feel a paw’s reach away from home. There’s talk of rescue, of signal fires, and escape rafts. Pie in the sky, my friends, pie in the sky.

But therein lies the rub, I suppose. We dwell in hope, in between the gnaws of sustenance and dregs of freshwater, awaiting the fickle tide of fate to steer us back to our human counterparts. Impatient? Not I, said the bulldog. Life hands you a deserted island, and what do you do? You make island lemonade, minus the lemons and the sugar. It’s a metaphor; stay with me here.

And as the moon perches high like a sentinel, I stretch on the sand, belly to the stars, and resign to the ebb of slumber. In dreams, I am back in Spencerville, my tennis ball within snout’s reach, the frisbee a mere leap away, and the peanut-butter-laden delights of gastronomic ecstasy surround me. Here’s looking at you, Spencerville. Until then, I am Fat Russell – the marooned gourmet with a penchant for camaraderie and the occasional stray tennis ball. Unrelenting, undeterred, and undeniably plump.

The End.

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