Sir Woofington’s Stolen Journal
🐾 Episode 12: Stripped of Identity
The wardrobe room was a dizzying whirl of fabric, scarves, hats, belts, sunglasses, and sparkling collars. Sir Woofington — once the noble, red-bowed figure of Wooftale Manor — now stood bewildered and bare-pawed before a towering tri-fold mirror.
Gone were his familiar red spectacles.
Gone was his signature bow tie.
In their place: a series of ever-changing accessories — a silk cravat, an aviator scarf, a studded collar, even, heaven help him, a glittering silver bandana.
He turned this way and that, eyeing himself miserably as the stylist and Percival circled like vultures, adjusting here, tightening there, chattering excitedly about his “new image.”
🐾 The Breaking Point
Sir Woofington growled softly, his thick tail lashing.
He pawed at the cravat, pulling it loose.
He gave a low, frustrated woof.
He whined, then barked sharply, stamping a paw.
“Don’t blow this deal for me now, Sir W!” Percival snapped, jabbing a paw at him. “We need to close this. You’ve got to walk back into that conference room and prove to those execs you’ve got the goods to star in this show!”
Sir Woofington froze, his ears flicking back sharply.
He stared at Percival, horror creeping across his noble face.
🐾 Betrayal Unfolding
I… he thought, his mind spinning.
I… was the one whose journal launched this. It was my private stories, my musings, my words…
Was it not enough? Did I not give all I had already?
He lowered his head, voice tight. “Mr. Percival, was this not supposed to be my story? My life, my dreams? Was it my choice to have my journal sniffed out, dug up, and scattered to the winds? Was it my desire to be dragged from my peaceful home and reshaped into something I barely recognize?”
Percival threw up his paws. “Oh come on, Sir W! You think this is just about you? I’ve sunk everything into this — everything! You owe me. Just once, give me something back!”
🐾 A Rift Appears
For a long, strained moment, they stared at each other — the noble Great Pyrenees, quivering with confusion and hurt, and the scrappy Beagle, eyes hard with frustration and ambition.
Agreement felt impossible.
Silence pressed in.
🐾 The Choice Ahead
And then, softly, Percival’s voice dropped.
“Sir W… what would make you stay?”
His eyes softened, just slightly. “What would bring you back to your senses? What can I do to make you want this again, instead of running home?”
Sir Woofington took a long, shaky breath, his chest heaving. He thought of his koi pond. His roses. His quiet walks. His gentle meditations.
But he also thought of something else — of the thrill, however terrifying, of having an audience, a stage, a chance to share his stories beyond the walls of Wooftale Manor.
Was there still a way forward?
Or was he already halfway back home?
🐾 Closing Reflection
Dear reader, the hour had come.
A choice loomed before me:
To cling to the past, or to step trembling into an uncertain future.
And somewhere, deep within, a voice whispered:
Can a noble heart survive in a world that demands it change?