Draft Two

I have never, in all my well-bred days, sought the vulgar trappings of fame. Fortune, of course, was another matter entirely — that came rather effortlessly, thanks to the generous inheritance bequeathed to me by my beloved resident human upon her untimely demise.

Whilst lesser hounds scrabbled for scraps upon London’s grimy pavements — squabbling over a discarded marrow bone or some forlorn rubber ball — I resided, in utter contentment, at Wooftales Manor. Mine was a life of leisure and cultivated repose, far from the unsavoury clamour of the city.

My days were artfully choreographed: a perambulation through the rose gardens in the cool of morning; a spot of reflection by my koi pond (where, I must add, the fish have always shown impeccable manners); a leisurely gnaw on my favourite, delightfully seasoned stick; and, come eventide, the most sacred ritual of all — settling into the quietude of my study to jot down musings, meditations, and the odd philosophical quandary within my private and most confidential journal.

It was bliss. Until disaster — utter catastrophe — befell me.

A pack of ruffians — curs of the basest sort, with mud-caked paws and an air of brazen insolence — invaded my sanctum. They sniffed out my hidden lockbox with appalling ease, clawed it from its well-concealed resting place, and, in a display of shocking vulgarity, defiled its contents.

Yes, dear reader, my cherished journal — my innermost thoughts, my polished prose — was seized by these mangy miscreants. They tore out its pages with their ghastly yellowed fangs, flinging them about with gleeful abandon, their flea-ridden tails thrashing as they howled with the sort of mirth only the uncouth can muster.

To my horror, they read my words. Out loud! My most private reflections — never intended for any eyes but my own noble ones — became public sport for this gang of gutter-dwelling hooligans.

And as if that weren’t indignity enough, the wind — capricious as ever — carried my precious pages far beyond the hedgerows of Wooftales Manor. They flew across the Channel, across continents, until, by some cruel twist of fate, they landed squarely in the glitzy, tinselled maw of Hollywood.

It was there that E.P. Percival emerged — a beagle of dubious morals and, I daresay, an accent that left much to be desired. The “E.P.,” I later learned, stood for “Executive Producer” — a title he brandished with the pride of a dog flashing a new collar, utterly oblivious to its vulgarity.

Percival, a relentless sniffer-out of the Next Big Thing, was beside himself with glee. He envisioned my private ruminations on the silver screen — a blockbuster, he slobbered, fit to rival the greatest canine tales ever told. His eyes gleamed with avarice; his tail wagged with the sort of sycophantic energy that one simply cannot abide.

Had his nose been as finely attuned as one expects of his breed, he might have detected my utter disinterest. I, Sir Woofington of Barkshire, am of the Great Pyrenees — a breed known not for chasing cheap thrills but for guarding that which is most precious. And what, I ask you, is more precious than one’s dignity?

But Percival was a devilishly persistent sort. His weapon of choice? Biscuits of the highest order. Tempting, yes — treacherously so. He flattered. He cajoled. He assured me that no other canine had ever penned their own life story with such eloquence and panache.

Against my better judgement — and perhaps led astray by one too many rosemary-and-duck-fat morsels — I found myself reluctantly drawn into his infernal web. Before long, there was talk of premieres, paw-print ceremonies at Grauman’s, and (dare I say it) action figures.

Utterly ghastly.

As I have said from the start, I never harboured ambitions of fame. But alas, destiny — with Percival yapping at its heels — had other designs for me.

Take heed, dear reader: never trust a beagle in a suit, no matter how charming his banter or how buttery his biscuits. For while he may wag his tail like a gentleman, beneath the surface lurks a scoundrel every bit as sly as a fox in a henhouse.

Draft 3

I never set out to be famous. Truly, I had no need for it. My fortune — a rather generous one, if I may say — came courtesy of my beloved human, who, upon her passing, ensured that I would never want for biscuits again.

While other dogs scrounged about London’s alleys for scraps and squabbled over old bones, I lived the country life, a picture of comfort and refinement at Wooftales Manor. My days were peaceful and pleasantly predictable: morning strolls through the rose garden and afternoon meditations by my koi pond.

But the best part of my days were in the evenings, retreating to my study to scribble my thoughts in my private, paws-only journal. It was a simple, yet dignified life.

That is, until my normal, precisely scheduled activities went spectacularly sideways…

A gang of unruly mutts — scoundrels, really — sniffed out my hidden lockbox, unearthed it with their filthy paws, and tore into my most treasured possession. My journal! My carefully kept, deeply personal writings, shredded and scattered like confetti at a street brawl.

And then — the unthinkable. They read my treasured journal. Barking with laughter, wagging scruffy tails as they made a mockery of my most private reflections.

The shattering humiliation didn’t stop there. The wind picked up those loose pages in a swirl, then had the audacity to carry my pages far and wide. Across the sea, over hills and highways, until somehow (and I still can’t quite believe this) they ended up in, of all places on the earth, Hollywood, California.

The media was in a feeding frenzy that lasted for weeks. Every news reporter and photographer from London, Paris and Rome, Bangkok, Tokyo and Shanghai, Abuja, Kenya and Casablanca, and other spots on all seven continents — competed for the best story and shot of my journal pages fluttering like butterflies through the sky.

Enter E.P. Percival: a beagle with a nose for business and a silver tongue to match. “E.P.,” he informed me proudly, stood for “Executive Producer,” as though that were something to boast about. He was slick, shameless, and absolutely determined to make me the next big star.

“Your words,” he said, eyes gleaming, “are gold, old chap. Pure storytelling gold! The world needs to see your stories on screens.”

Had that beagle possessed the proper instincts of his breed, he might have noticed my utter lack of interest. I am, after all, a Great Pyrenees — a breed more accustomed to romping over hills and guarding flocks than chasing the pointless, frivolous idea of fame. Hollywood was the last place I wanted to plant my paws.

But Percival was persistent. He flattered, he fussed, and — worst of all — he bribed me with biscuits of frankly outrageous quality. “There’s never been a dog like you,” he insisted. “Paw-to-pen, heart on the page — you’re one of a kind!”

Well. Even the most dignified among us have our weak spots.

Before I knew it, there were meetings. Scripts. Posters. Talk of premieres and paw-print ceremonies. The whole furry-famed merry-go-round only Hollywood could produce.

As I’ve said from the start, I never wanted fame. But fate — and a particularly persuasive beagle — had other ideas.

After the fright-inducing I experienced I vow to never again trust a beagle in show business. Especially one waving a contract in one paw and a biscuit in the other.

Woof!

A Most Unfortunate Meeting of Minds

It was a blustery afternoon at Wooftales Manor when the letter arrived — hand-delivered, no less, by a cocker spaniel courier with entirely too much tail-wag for Sir Woofington’s taste. The envelope, thick and garish, fairly reeked of ambition. Embossed in shiny gold script: “From the Desk of E.P. Percival.”

Sir Woofington raised a skeptical brow. “Executive Producer? Oh, how frightfully American,” he muttered, delicately slicing the letter open with one polished claw.

The contents were as unsubtle as the envelope: a summons — no, an invitation — to discuss “exciting opportunities of mutual benefit,” peppered with words like “synergy,” “market potential,” and, most ominously, “Hollywood magic.”

Sir Woofington sighed and reached for a biscuit. He had a sinking feeling his quiet life was about to be disturbed.

Two days later, Percival himself appeared at Wooftales Manor, bounding from a gleaming black limousine that seemed several sizes too large for his beagle frame. He wore a pinstripe suit (poorly fitted), sunglasses (indoors), and carried a briefcase that looked suspiciously empty.

“Sir Woofington! Buddy!” Percival barked, his American accent sharp enough to slice cheddar. “It is so great to finally meetcha. This place—wow—real classy. Love the vibe. Very Downton, y’know?”

Sir Woofington, who had just descended the marble staircase with the slow dignity of a monarch, blinked. “Downton? Ah, you refer, I presume, to Downton Abbey, the period drama. A most respectable programme.”

“Sure, sure, the one with all the fancy tea and the stiff collars,” Percival grinned, thrusting out a paw for a hearty shake. “Love that show. Super cute with the accents and all. Listen—can I call you Woofy?”

Sir Woofington froze, one ear twitching in alarm. “I would… rather you did not.” He gestured, coolly, toward the sitting room. “Shall we adjourn to the drawing room for—how shall I put it—refreshments?”

Percival swaggered in, glancing around like he owned the place. “Oh yeah, this’ll work. Real cosy. Now, let’s talk big picture, Sir W. You—my friend—are a phenomenon. Your journal? It’s a hit! Viral gold. The folks in Tinseltown are going bonkers for it. We’re talking TV, movies, merch—heck, maybe even a Broadway musical!”

Sir Woofington cleared his throat. “Forgive me, but… Tinseltown? Is that some sort of… confectionery establishment?”

Percival laughed uproariously, slapping his briefcase. “Man, you Brits kill me. Tinseltown—Hollywood! La La Land! Y’know, where the stars live.”

“Ah,” Sir Woofington replied, eyes narrowing. “Yes. Quite.” He sipped his tea delicately. “How utterly garish.”

Undeterred, Percival ploughed on. “I gotta say, your brand—it's got legs. Big, fluffy legs. That story about your stolen journal? The pathos, the intrigue—it’s next level. We can build a whole franchise around it. Think: plushies, chew toys, limited-edition biscuits—Sir Woofington’s Signature Nibbles!”

Sir Woofington nearly choked on his tea. “Nibbles? I beg your pardon, sir, but I do not nibble. I partake. And may I remind you that my journal was a deeply personal collection of musings, not… not fodder for frivolous plushies.”

Percival flashed a winning grin. “Exactly! That’s the hook. Authenticity, my man. The fans lap that stuff up. Speaking of, I brought ya a little something—consider it a taste of what’s to come.” He rummaged in his briefcase and triumphantly produced… a bone-shaped squeaky toy emblazoned with Sir Woofington’s face.

There was a long, terrible silence.

Sir Woofington stared at it, his eye twitching just slightly. “How… charming,” he said, with the brittle politeness of someone contemplating arson.

Percival, oblivious, leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “This is the start of something huge, Woofy. Trust me. We’re gonna make history.”

Sir Woofington set his teacup down, folded his paws, and fixed the beagle with his frostiest stare. “Mr. Percival, while I appreciate your… enthusiasm, I must remind you that we are not, as you Americans say, ‘on the same page.’ Indeed, I rather think we are not even reading from the same book.”

Percival blinked, smiled gamely, and patted his briefcase. “No worries! We’ll circle back. Touch base. I’ll shoot ya an email.” He winked. “Oh, and think about the chew toy thing. Big market there.”

As Percival sauntered back to his limousine, humming what sounded suspiciously like the Downton Abbey theme, Sir Woofington watched from the window, one paw pressed to his temple.

“Great heavens,” he muttered. “What fresh madness is this?”

And in that moment, as the limousine disappeared down the winding drive, Sir Woofington knew — deep in his finely tuned British bones — that this was only the beginning.