🐾 Episode 3: A Windblown Discovery

To say that the wind rose would be an understatement, dear reader.

It howled. It swept. It snatched.

Across the gardens of Wooftale Manor, the pages of my private journal — my musings, my stories, my precious confessions — lifted into the air like a flock of startled pigeons. One after another they rose, twirling, flapping, tumbling higher and higher.

They did not stop at the hedges. They did not stop at the walls.

They crossed the hills, the towns, the cities — dancing on a current of improbability, carried farther than any reasonable breeze ought to go.

The BBC ran a breaking segment that very night.
“A strange rain of papers,” the reporter announced, hair tousled by a gust, “seems to be crossing international airspace, originating from the English countryside and now spotted as far as… North America?”

Helicopter shots showed flurries of pages swirling through the sky. Bystanders pointed skyward, phones held aloft to record the baffling sight.

Among the puzzled and the curious, however, one figure stood apart.
On a palm-lined street in Hollywood, California, a Beagle in a smart gray vest, red necktie, black half-spectacles, and a rakish cap tilted just so squinted up at the sky.

A page drifted down, soft as a feather.

He caught it.

🎬 E.P. Percival’s Narration

“You could say I’ve got a nose for stories.”

I, E.P. Percival, Executive Producer and seeker of untapped brilliance, know when the universe is sending me a sign. And when pages start falling out of the sky — well, that’s no ordinary sign. That’s a summons.

I caught the first one. A crinkled sheet, smelling faintly of roses, pond water, and something… noble.

“‘…and in pondering whether a dog may rise beyond mere obedience, I find myself drawn to the poetry of solitude.’”

My whiskers twitched. My ears perked.

I snatched another page. And another. My paws, nimble from years in the industry, worked with practiced speed, catching the scattered sheets as they rained down like confetti.

Before long, I had the whole collection — damp, torn, windblown, but intact. I spread them out on the studio floor, smoothing the edges, my heart thudding with excitement.

The words — the voice — it was gold.

A dog, clearly, had written these. But not just any dog. This was the voice of a thinker, a dreamer, a storyteller. A dog with soul, wit, and a refined sense of his own importance.

Animated series, I thought instantly.
Character-driven. Episodic. Global reach.

I could see it now: Sir Woofington, Fabled Scribe of Canine Tales — his name in lights, his stories brought to life on screens across the world.

There was just one problem.

Who was he?
Where was he?
And how, by all the biscuits in California, was I going to find him?

I paced the studio, adjusting my tie, rubbing my paw over the cap brim. The scent on the pages — faintly floral, distinctly English. My nose twitched. My mind raced.

Somewhere out there was a dog who didn’t yet know he was about to become a star.

And I, E.P. Percival, was going to track him down.