Second take of their first meeting:
A Most Unfortunate Meeting of Minds
I should have known, of course, that nothing good ever arrives in a gilded envelope. The moment the cocker spaniel courier pranced up the drive, tail wagging with an absurd level of enthusiasm, I had an inkling that doom was at my doorstep.
The letter — thick, shiny, and altogether far too pleased with itself — was embossed in gaudy gold script: “From the Desk of E.P. Percival.”
I sniffed at it with suspicion. “Executive Producer,” I muttered. “How frightfully American.” Still, curiosity got the better of me, as it occasionally does, and I sliced it open with a claw.
The contents were precisely as ghastly as I’d feared: an invitation — no, a summons — to discuss “exciting opportunities of mutual benefit,” dripping with phrases like “global potential,” “cross-platform success,” and (most damning of all) “Hollywood magic.”
I sighed, poured myself a cup of tea, and resigned myself to an incoming nuisance.
Two days later, my suspicions were confirmed in the fur.
E.P. Percival arrived in what I can only describe as a rolling monstrosity — a limousine far too large for any sensible creature, especially one of his diminutive beagle stature. Out he sprang, sunglasses perched absurdly on his snout despite the overcast sky, a pinstripe suit stretched awkwardly across his frame, and a briefcase that gave off the distinct impression of being empty.
“Sir Woofington!” he barked, bounding toward me as though we were old chums. “Buddy! Wow, this place—chef’s kiss! Real fancy. Totally Downton.”
I, having descended the manor steps with my usual grace, blinked slowly. “Downton, you say? Ah—you refer to Downton Abbey, I presume. A most respectable programme.”
He laughed, a loud, boisterous thing, and thrust out a paw. “Yeah, that’s the one! With the tea and the snooty butler. Love it. Real classy. Say, can I call you Woofy?”
I froze. My right ear twitched involuntarily. “I would much prefer that you did not.”
I ushered him into the drawing room, suppressing the urge to sigh audibly, and gestured to a chair. “Do sit. I imagine you’d care for… refreshments?”
He plopped into the armchair as though it were a beanbag and rubbed his paws together. “You bet! Listen, Woof—er, Sir W.—I gotta tell ya, your story? Unbelievable. That stolen journal saga? Viral gold. People can’t get enough. We’re talking TV, movies, plush toys—the whole enchilada!”
I blinked. “Enchilada?”
“Y’know—big opportunity! Tinseltown magic!” He grinned, clearly expecting me to be impressed.
I cleared my throat. “Tinseltown… Is that some sort of... pastry shop?”
He barked out a laugh and slapped his briefcase. “You Brits! Hilarious. No, no—Hollywood. The big leagues! I’m telling ya, this is your moment.”
I took a slow, measured sip of tea, peering at him over the rim of my cup. “How utterly… delightful,” I said, my tone suggesting the precise opposite. “And what, pray, do you envision in this ‘moment’ of mine?”
“Well, buddy, we build a brand! Sir Woofington—star, author, icon. Think: biscuits, chew toys, maybe even a theme park! I brought you a little taste of what’s to come.” He dug into his briefcase and pulled out… a squeaky toy. Bone-shaped. My face, emblazoned across it.
I stared at it. For a long, long time.
“How… charming,” I said at last, in the brittle voice of someone contemplating the quickest route to the nearest cliff.
But Percival, utterly oblivious, barreled ahead. “This is the start of something huge, my friend. Trust me—we’re gonna make history!”
I set down my cup with precision, folded my paws, and fixed him with my iciest stare. “Mr. Percival. While I appreciate your, ah, enthusiasm, I must inform you that I have no intention of allowing my personal writings to be paraded about like some tawdry tabloid tale. Nor do I wish to see my likeness rendered in rubber and squeaked upon.”
He winked. “Totally get it. You’re a purist. Love that. Listen, I’ll shoot you a follow-up. We’ll circle back.” He slapped the arm of the chair, stood up, and strolled toward the door as if he’d just closed the deal of the century.
As he sauntered down the steps, humming—yes, humming—the theme to Downton Abbey, I stood at the window, watching his ridiculous limousine snake down the drive.
“Good grief,” I muttered. “What fresh madness have I let into my life?”
Even then, I knew: this was merely the beginning. And I, Sir Woofington of Barkshire, was in far deeper than I ever intended.
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 untimely demise, 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 delighted my senses. Afternoon meditations by my koi pond restored my soul.
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 and privileged 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 torn 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 places on all seven continents — competed for the best story and photograph 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 Hollywood star.
“Your words,” he said, eyes gleaming, “are gold, old chap. Pure storytelling gold! The world needs to see your stories come to life on the screen.”
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 a quality befitting the most discerning of biscuit epicures.
“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. Flattery is indeed a as potent as a Cupid’s arrow into a lover’s heart.
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 coma-inducing I experienced, thanks to the producer beagle, I vow to never again trust him or any other canine with the tenacity to brave the bold show business arena — especially one who waves a contract in one paw and a biscuit in the other.
Woof.