🐾 Percival Comes to Town

A Most Unfortunate Meeting of Minds

I should have known better. Nothing good ever arrives in a gilded envelope. The moment the cocker spaniel courier pranced up the drive, tail wagging with an absurd level of enthusiasm, I had an inkling that doom was at my doorstep.

The letter — thick, shiny, and altogether far too pleased with itself — was embossed in gaudy gold script: “From the Desk of E.P. Percival.”

I sniffed at it with suspicion. “Executive Producer,” I muttered. “How frightfully American.” Still, curiosity got the better of me, as it occasionally does, and I sliced it open with a claw.

The contents was precisely as ghastly as I’d feared: an invitation that felt more like a summons — to discuss “exciting opportunities of mutual benefit.” It dripped with phrases like “global potential,” “cross-platform success,” and most damning of all, “Hollywood magic.”

I sighed, poured myself a cup of tea, and resigned myself to an incoming nuisance.

Two days later, my suspicions were confirmed in the flesh and fur with tail wagging. There he was, E.P. Percival had arrived in what I can only describe as a rolling monstrosity — a limousine far too large for any sensible creature, especially one of his diminutive beagle stature.

Out he sprang, sunglasses perched absurdly on his snout despite the overcast sky, a pinstripe suit with matching Bermuda shorts and vest awkwardly on his pint-sized frame, and a briefcase that gave off the distinct impression of being empty. The only accessory I could almost relate to was his red necktie, not a bow tie as I have in my collection of same.

“Sir Woofington!” he barked, bounding toward me as though we were old chums. “Buddy! Wow, this place—chef’s kiss! Real fancy. Totally Downton.”

I, having descended the manor steps with my usual grace, blinked slowly. “Downton, you say? Ah—you refer to Downton Abbey, I presume. A most respectable programme.”

He laughed, a loud, boisterous honking, and thrust out a paw. “Yeah, that’s the one! With the tea and the snooty butler. Love it. Real classy. Say, can I call you Woofy?”

I froze. My right ear twitched involuntarily. “I would much prefer that you did not.”

I ushered him into the drawing room, suppressing the urge to sigh audibly, and gestured to a chair. “Do sit. I shall pour you a cuppa.”

“A what-a?”

“A cuppa tea, of course. Unless you’d prefer a snort.”

“I do not snort. Snorting is for pigs. I am a beagle.”

I could tell we may need a translator. The pair of us, both speak English with entirely different meanings to our words. I gestured to the armchair where I designated as my guest chair, but the thought of E.P. Percival would be a guest in my home gave me a shiver. I eyed his luggage by the doorway and my shiver gave way to a twitch. He had better not think he would be polluted my tidy guest quarters with his beagle stink.

He plopped into the armchair as though it were a beanbag and rubbed his paws together. “You bet! I’ll down any liquid you’re pouring.”

Inwardly I sighted. Decades of meditating by my precious koi pond lent me the inner strength I needed now. I only wished I could sit by it now.'

“Listen, Woof—er, Sir W.—I gotta tell ya, your journal stories? Unbelievable. That stolen journal saga? Viral gold. People can’t get enough. We’re talking TV, movies, plush toys—the whole enchilada!”

I blinked. “Enchilada?”

“Y’know—big opportunity! Tinseltown magic!” He grinned, clearly expecting me to be impressed.

I cleared my throat. “Tinseltown… Is that some sort of... bake shop?”

He barked out a laugh and slapped his briefcase. “You Brits! Hilarious. No, no—Hollywood. The big leagues! I’m telling ya, this is your moment.”

I took a slow, measured sip of tea, peering at him over the rim of my cup. “How utterly… delightful,” I said, my tone suggesting the precise opposite. “And what, pray, do you envision in this ‘moment’ of mine?”

“Well, buddy, we build a brand! Sir Woofington—star, author, icon. Think: biscuits, chew toys, maybe even a theme park! I brought you a little taste of what’s to come.” He dug into his briefcase and pulled out… a squeaky toy. Bone-shaped. My face, emblazoned across it.

“We gonna merch you out.”

I stared at the squeaky toy. For a long, long time.

“How… charming,” I said at last, in the brittle voice of someone contemplating the quickest route to the nearest cliff. “However, Mr. Percival, I…”

“Please, call me E.P.”

“Fine, uh, E.P. But I’m really not in a position to be merched, as you say.”

“Drop the P. Just E will do. We’re gonna be tight, you and me, when we put this shiny deal into play.”

Percival, or rather “E,” was utterly oblivious to my desires and barreled onward in a direction I knew I would not want to understand. As it was, I did not comprehend his affrontory at flying all the way from Hollywood, California simply to meet me with his deal-making and… and… his merch.

“Listen bro…”

“Bro?”

“Alright, dog…”

“How crass.” At last I dug in my paws at this outlandish approach he seemed to have in buttering me up. “Don’t address me as ‘dog,’ despite that is what I am. But I do have a name. Officially, as registered in Her Magistrate’s Canine Records, I am Sir Woofington of Wagamore Manor.”

This outburst of mine shut the beagle up. The air was cleared. He stared at me, now with out his sunglasses perched on his snout.

“I will warn you now, do not attempt to abbreviate my official name to ‘Sir Woofy,” and certainly not the more pedestrian nickname of ‘Woofie.’ As a Great Pyreness, such street jibberish would be an assault of my fine breeding — and my breed.”

“I hear you, Sir W. But let me hop in here. I have a head-spinning deal to offer you. You and me, see, we have the start of something huge, my friend. Trust me—we’re gonna make history! And this… this journal of yours is the coal we can crush into a diamond. Savvy?”

I set down my cup with precision, folded my paws, and fixed him with my iciest stare. “Mr. Percival. Or E, shall I say. While I appreciate your, ah, enthusiasm, I must inform you that I have no intention of allowing my personal writings to be bandied about like some tawdry tabloid tale. Nor do I wish to see my likeness rendered in rubber and squeaked upon like that infernal rubber… That toy you call ‘merch.’”

Percival winked. “Totally get it. You’re a purist. Love that. That’s your brand. Now, listen, I’ll shoot you a follow-up. We’ll circle back.”

Then that beagle who suggested I address him with a single capital letter slapped the arm of the chair, stood up, and strolled toward the door as if he’d just closed the deal of the century.

As he sauntered down the steps, humming—yes, humming—the theme to Downton Abbey, I stood at the window, watching his ridiculous limousine snake down the drive.

“Good grief,” I muttered. “What fresh madness just accosted my glorious Wagamore Manor?”

Even then, I knew the truth. Percival was not the only one to have a vision. I vividly saw that our afternoon tete-a-tete was merely the beginning. And I, Sir Woofington of Wagamore was in far deeper than I ever intended.

“Woof.”