🐾 2. The Theft of My Private Words

I rose with deliberate grace from the veranda and made my way down the marble steps, and past the koi pond where the fish drifted in delicate circles.

That smell — the interlopers were near.

I rounded the rose hedge just in time to see it: a pack of scruffy, laughing, wagging mutts, bounding across my garden. At their feet —
My journal.

My journal, pried from its hiding place beneath the old magnolia. Pages torn free, pages read aloud, pages mocked with yips and snickers. My deepest musings, my quiet reflections, scattered like autumn leaves beneath their muddy paws.

I let out a low, indignant huff.
To bark would be undignified.
To lunge would be unthinkable.

Instead, I turned away, heart heavy, paws trembling faintly. I retreated to the koi pond, where I settled into a meditative pose, shutting the world out.

🐾 Episode 2: The Echoes of My Own Words

There are moments, dear reader, when the mighty must make themselves small.

I, Sir Woofington of Wooftale Manor, fabled scribe of canine tales, found myself curled not in a noble pose, nor in a poised recline, but in something rather like a shivering, overgrown furball wedged behind a marble planter. One could almost describe it — with only mild dramatic flair — as a fetal position.

My red bow tie, once the proud ribbon of my identity, now sat askew at my throat, damp with nervous panting. My round red spectacles teetered on the bridge of my nose, threatening at any moment to slip entirely and clatter to the stone.

I wanted to disappear. To sink into the earth like an embarrassed root vegetable.

But alas — I was a rather large, rather fluffy Great Pyrenees, and there was precious little around me that could fully camouflage my rotund majesty. So I did what I could: pressed my tail flat, ducked my head low, and prayed to the quiet spirits of the garden to render me unseen.

Beyond the roses, the pack roared with laughter, their paws thumping in the grass like an ill-rehearsed drum circle.

“Listen to this one!” barked the Shepherd mix.

A page rustled — I could hear it, sharp as the crackle of autumn leaves — and then came a voice, reading aloud:
“‘To wonder if one’s greatness can bloom unseen — what a tender, foolish ache it is.’”

A pause. Then a sharp whistle.
“Wooooooof!”
“Bravo!” barked the Labrador, his tail thumping.
“Who wrote this stuff?” yipped the Jack Russell. “It’s genius!”

I froze. My ears twitched.

They were… applauding?

From my hiding place, I peered cautiously through a veil of rosebushes, their petals brushing against my damp nose. My heart, which had been drumming a panicked rhythm just moments before, now beat an entirely different tune — a confused, astonished flutter, like a moth caught beneath a lampshade.

I watched them: the Spaniel waving a page aloft like a trophy, the Basset Hound solemnly nodding along, the Golden Retriever rolling on his back in gleeful delight.

They weren’t jeering.
They weren’t mocking.

They were… delighted.

My cheeks burned beneath my white fur. I felt a heady, confusing swirl of humiliation and pride, like a dog who has accidentally caught a ball he meant only to bark at.

And yet — I did not rise. Not yet.
No, no. A gentleman does not simply leap into the middle of a crowd, even if they are, improbably, admiring his prose.

Instead, I adjusted my spectacles (careful, careful), tightened the knot of my slightly drooping bow tie, and crouched a little deeper into the shadows. My rotund frame was not exactly designed for stealth, but I did my best, arranging myself like an oversized garden statue among the ivy.

Let them revel. Let them recite and bark and cheer.
I would watch — and wait — until the moment was right to step forward.

After all, dear reader, one must not merely reclaim one’s dignity.
One must choose the moment to rise.