The Pitch

In His Own Words

Sir Woofington Expounds Upon His Circumstances

I have never, in my most baroque daydreams, aspired to fame. Fortune, however, had already graced my noble paws, thanks to the generous inheritance bequeathed to me by my cherished human upon her untimely demise—a tragedy borne of complications from a botched face-lift. I had, with considerable gravity, advised her against such frivolity. Her visage, while no masterpiece of classical antiquity, was perfectly suitable for a heartfelt lick on the cheek after she tossed me a biscuit. Alas, my entreaties fell on deaf ears, and now—oh, the bitter pangs of loss!—my beloved benefactress is consigned to eternity.

Her kindness, however, has ensured that I may continue a life of elegant repose. Never have I found myself groveling in the unseemly gutters of our village, scavenging from rubbish bins for forlorn morsels of kibble, gnawed marrow bones, or—perish the thought—a tatty squeaky toy. Instead, I remain ensconced in blissful contentment here at Wagamore Abbey, the only home I have ever known and, God willing, ever shall.

My days unfold with the precision of a Swiss timepiece. In the morning, I promenade through my rose gardens, inhaling their intoxicating fragrance with a practiced air of refinement. In the afternoon, I restore my inner harmony by meditating beside my koi pond, punctuated, as is tradition, by a ceremonious striking of my gong. Its dulcet tones ripple through my glossy coat, setting mind and body in sublime alignment.

Evenings commence with a modest repast on my terrace—lobster Newburg, naturally—after which I adjourn to my favorite corner beneath the venerable old magnolia in my private grove. There, I indulge in one of life’s simplest yet profoundest pleasures: gnawing upon my favored stick, a vintage specimen of oak, whose earthy bouquet is second to none. Not incidentally, it also assists in dislodging the last morsels of lobster from the recesses of my impeccable dentition—a matter of both hygiene and decorum, though I must confess it sometimes compels me to spit.

But my most hallowed ritual is reserved for the twilight hour, when I retire to the sanctity of my study. There, at my mahogany escritoire, I pour my innermost musings into my journal, perfecting the dips and swirls of my pawmanship with monastic devotion. Upon completing each entry, I lock my cherished tome away in a sturdy box, turn the key with a satisfying click, and amble outside to bury it beneath the moon’s watchful gaze. Only then do I retire to my chambers, secure in the knowledge that my most intimate reflections are safely hidden from prying eyes.

Or so I believed.

My cultivated tranquility was shattered—nay, obliterated—when a vile pack of rogue curs sniffed out my concealed lockbox and exhumed my most sacred possession with their filthy paws.

Imagine, dear reader, my unspeakable horror: the pages of my private journal, so meticulously preserved, were torn asunder by yellowed fangs dripping with slobber. Mangy tails wagged with indecent enthusiasm; gleeful howls rent the air above my majestic Wagamore Manor. My innermost thoughts—those pearls of insight—mocked and jeered at by the rabble! Were they ridiculing my words... or, I dare say, were they secretly admiring my literary genius?

The indignity! Those despicable miscreants dared to read my pages aloud. Let me be clear: these writings were crafted for mine eyes alone. They were the unvarnished chronicles of my soul, never meant for public perusal. And yet there I stood, metaphorically stripped bare (for, apart from my red bow tie, I customarily eschew clothing).

To compound this abomination, those flea-bitten fiends laughed uproariously at my expense, even as my words—my very life’s work!—were whisked away by capricious winds. The pages soared beyond the hedgerows, across vast oceans, and—by some cruel twist of fate—all the way to that most vulgar of locales: Hollywood, California.

The press, naturally, descended into a frenzy. Truth was trampled beneath the paws of sensationalism; lies cavorted freely. Reporters, cameras flashing like demented fireflies, competed to capture images of my journal pages as they fluttered through the sky like so many errant butterflies.

And then—enter stage left—a Beagle named E.P. Percival, an insidious operator of the highest order. An executive producer (or so he claimed), Percival possessed a nose not merely for biscuits but for blockbuster hits. One assumes his moniker—“E.P.”—was a self-bestowed homage to his lofty title, though I privately surmise it stands for “Exceedingly Presumptuous.”

Had his olfactory faculties been in proper working order, he would have detected my utter disinterest from a mile away. I am, after all, a noble Great Pyrenees. We do not debase ourselves for the glare of klieg lights or the empty flattery of the entertainment-industrial complex. Hollywood’s gaudy trifles are best left to lesser breeds.

And yet… I must concede, the rascal possessed a certain cunning. With honeyed words and promises of legacy, he plied me shamelessly—his arsenal of gourmet biscuits did not hurt, either. “You are singular,” he proclaimed. “No other canine has set paw to paper with such wit and verve.”

At least, that is what the silver-tongued rogue would have me believe.

Despite my profound reluctance, I found myself inexorably drawn into his machinations. No matter my protestations, the current of destiny—and E.P. Percival’s relentless wheedling—swept me ever closer to the abyss of stardom.

As I have said before, I never sought fame. But it seems fame, with all its vulgar accoutrements, has well and truly sought me.

And so, dear reader, the saga begins.