Episode 11: A Heart in Tatters, a Dream on Hold

I sat by the hotel window, gazing out over the smoggy glow of Hollywood, heart aching. My Champagne-blush enchantress had been swept away by producers, leaving me baffled and bruised.

“Forget the project,” I told Percival. “I want to go home — back to my koi pond, my English roses. Who will nourish them now? Without me, they will perish. I am needed there, not here.”

But Percival had other plans.

🎬 The Salon Ordeal

“Nope, nope, nope!” Percival declared, hauling me bodily into a gleaming makeover salon. “If you want to bail on this, fine — but not before you get the full Hollywood treatment.”

I was promptly set upon by an army of stylists.
My straight, noble fur was permed into tight curls.
My canine teeth were scrubbed and whitened until they gleamed like porcelain.
My paw nails were clipped, shaped, and polished to a scandalous shine.

To my utter bewilderment, I was even subjected to a massage — paws, shoulders, back.
At first, I was tense, alarmed, utterly out of sorts.
But as skilled paws kneaded my stiff muscles, I felt… calmer. Lighter. Almost serene.

Why, I thought, this is not unlike my breathing exercises when I meditate.
Indeed, I floated away on a wave of warmth and well-being, drifting into a momentary peace.

🐾 The Stage Fright

I was promptly yanked back to earth.

“Time for your comedy debut!” Percival beamed, thrusting a crumpled monologue into my paw. “Open mic night at The Improv. You’re on!”

“Wait… what?” I stammered. “I — I need a coach! A stage presence! I —”

“No time, Sir W. You’ve got this!”

With barely a moment to collect myself, I found myself shoved onto the stage, blinking into the blinding lights.

🐾 The Audience of Rogues

There, in the crowd, sat the very dog pack who had unearthed my journal back in England — the Jack Russell, the Labrador, the Basset, the Spaniel — all shipped to California by Percival, newly freed from their travel cages, wagging eagerly, tongues lolling, ready to cheer.

I swallowed hard.
I opened my mouth.
I began the monologue.

Reader, it was a disaster.

The lines tangled. My tongue fumbled. My paws trembled. Laughter came — but not the good kind. Before I could recover, a giant hook emerged from the wings and hauled me off the stage in full public humiliation.

🐾 The Collapse

Humiliated, I bundled myself — quite literally — into an empty dog travel crate backstage. I pulled the door shut with a weary paw.

“Send me home,” I whispered to Percival, who stood nearby, his jaw slack with sympathy. “I don’t care if it’s on another luxury cruise. Put me in an airplane, for all I care.”

I sighed deeply, resting my chin on my paws.
“I just ask one thing, Percival: could you… make it first class?”