Preamble to Sir Woofington’s Stolen Journal

I am a patient dog. No, let me rephrase that — I am the very embodiment of patience. As a noble Great Pyrenees, I was raised under the strict code of propriety, my every gesture shaped to reflect the finest manners, from the twitch of my black nose to the tip of my luxurious, well-groomed tail. And yes, though I take pride in my discipline, I must admit that occasionally — just occasionally — I must remind myself not to let my tail wag too freely.

Patience, you see, is a virtue I have honed across the years. Whether awaiting the precise moment to leap for a tennis ball, or calmly carrying my favorite stick to the far end of the garden, or refraining from plunging snout-first into a delectable bowl of kibble — even when pangs of hunger gnaw at me — I remain composed. Silent. Noble. Ever patient.

It was this very patience that steadied me as I stood upon the grand veranda of Wagamore Manor, my cherished country estate, watching — and waiting — for the squirrels to settle down. Those jittery, twitchy little rogues darted across my garden as if they owned the place. I wished, oh how I wished, they would simply vamoose, leaving me to enjoy a tranquil stroll through my rose garden without dodging their chaotic scurries.

Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking: “But Sir Woofington! Don’t all dogs love to chase squirrels?” Ah, but you see, I am not all dogs. Chasing my own tail would be beneath me, let alone lowering myself to dart after a squirrel. No, I leave such pedestrian amusements to the Beagles, the Spaniels, the Labradoodles — those blessed with less… refinement.

On that fateful afternoon, I stood serenely, my spiffy red bow tie resting perfectly at my throat, my round red spectacles glinting softly in the sun. I admired the lush rolling hills, the stately row of linden trees, the flower beds bursting with color, the koi gliding silently through the pond. The sweet perfume of my roses drifted toward me on the breeze.

And then… A smell.

Not the earthy, slightly nutty scent of squirrel. Not the dampness of freshly turned soil. No, this was something new. Something sharp. Something unwelcome. My nose twitched once, twice. My ears pricked up. I took a cautious sniff, drawing the air in slowly, methodically, as only a dog of my breeding could.

The scent was foreign, unfamiliar, and distinctly unpleasant. It was not something I could ignore. It tugged at my senses, nudging me away from my peaceful garden reverie.

Little did I know, as I stood there, nose raised to the air, that my world was about to change forever.

Because, dear reader, this was the first sign. The first signal. The first faint whiff of the chaos soon to befall me — the unearthing of my most private possession, the scattering of my secret journal to the winds, the uninvited entry of a pushy Beagle producer into my life, and the catapulting (or should I say, dogapulting) of one humble country canine toward international fame.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Allow me to begin… properly.