Her kindness in leaving me a fortune afforded me to carry on with a privileged lifestyle for a pooch. Never would I need to beg on the seamier side of our village, rummaging through rubbish bins for morsels of kibble, pre-chewed marrow bones, or a forlorn squeaky toy for me to occupy my time and feeling like I’m all alone in the world — which I am now. But thankfully, I am free to remain blissfully content to continue my leisurely country life, here at Wagamore Abbey, the only place I’ve ever called home.

My days are filled with endless bliss. I follow a schedule precisely timed with my Swiss timepiece for an array of privileged activities expected in the lifestyle of a pampered country pooch. In the morning, I stroll through my rose gardens sniffing their sweet aroma. In the afternoon, I restore my soul meditating by my koi pond, concluding with striking a gong. Its gentle waves reverberate throughout my lustrous furry coat and sets my mind and body in alignment, which can only be described as sublime.

After dining al fresco on my terrace, I fancy a leap over to my favorite corner of my vast acres of lush, green grass, and pause under the oldest tree in my magnolia grove — just to chew on my favorite stick and savor its earthy flavors. Doing so scrapes the last of my Beef Wellington from the crevices of my canine teeth, necessitating me to (cover your eyes) expectorate the bits.

But my most sacred time is the evening when I pad over to the quiet solitude of my study. There at my antique mahogany desk is where I write my personal thoughts in my journal, perfecting the dips and swirls of my best paw-manship. Upon completion, I place my journal in a lockbox, turn the key, then head outside to bury it in a hole for safe keeping. I can retire to my bedroom then for a sound night sleep, breathing a sigh of joy that my treasured journal was carefully hidden.

But my refined sense of well-being shattered into pieces when a pack of rogue dogs sniffed out my hidden lockbox and dug up my most guarded secret with their grimy paws.

Imagine my horror that the pages of my journal that had been so carefully contained inside said lockbox, were ripped out with putrid yellow fangs. Mangy tails were wagging. Gleeful howls echoed throughout my majestic Wagamore Abbey. They were making fun of my inner-most thoughts — all carefully guarded confessions.

Oh, the humiliation of it all. Those dastardly dogs read my pages! Never were they written with the intention of sharing them with anyone. They were intimate recordings of my daily thoughts. How double-dog dared them to strip me naked — metaphorically speaking, of course. Except for my red bow tie, I rarely wear clothes. However, to stay in good stead with my contemporaries, I do keep a tuxedo in my wardrobe for royal balls.

To compound my worries, my candid life stories scattered to the winds. Reams of pages flew beyond the clouds and traveled farther than I ever imagined: across oceans, across continents and all the way to Hollywood, California — of all the tacky places on the face of the earth.

The media went mad. Truth went by the wayside. Lies went viral. Reporters competed to capture the best photos of my journal pages as they fluttered like butterflies in the sky.

But it was a Beagle by the name of E.P. Percival — a scheming, deal-chasing executive producer with a nose for blockbuster hits — who seized the top prize.

I bet he named himself “E.P.” to stand for “Executive Producer.” But his nose must’ve been on the blink when he sought me out. Had he possessed a finely tuned sniffer as most in his breed do, he would’ve known that I never longed for a spotlight, neither here in England, nor anywhere else on the globe. As a noble member of the Great Pyrenees breed, I do not care about Hollywood and all that flashy rubbish they churn out, presumably to entertain dimwitted audiences who have no other passion than to watch whatever flickers on the screen.

But, I must admit, E.P. Percival turned out to be a mastermind of sorts. He had a way of coaxing and biscuit-bribing me into his cinematic vision, then somehow managed to drag me into his media power-plays. After all, I was a “one-of-a-kind in my breed,” he had said. “No other canine had ever put paw-to-pen like you. And with such flair.”

At least that’s what that silver tongued beagle told to me. Still, I had no desire to step one paw in Hollywood — not even if they forced me to sink it in a wet slab of cement by Grauman’s Chinese Theater.

As I said, I never yearned to be famous. But I suppose destiny had other plans for my life. And so did E.P. Percival. I had little choice in the matter when he unearthed a secret I didn’t even trust to record in my journal. How did he ever discover the regrettable hour in my dog’s life? Forever do I cringe when I think of that… that Garden Party Incident.

And that is how I had no choice but to go along with his blackmail scheme. It would be worse — far worse — to reveal the details of that unfortunate day than to have the pages of my personal journal turned into a silly series for all the world to watch.

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