dog

For A Police Officer, There Is Never A Good Dog Call

BenjaminLeave a comment

This Story From The Classics. Posted Originally in 2024 it is Reposted this year as part of the best of the best stories benandsteve.com are sharing at years end.

Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

4–5 minutes

I have driven thousands of miles in my police patrol unit. I have also answered nearly as many calls. I can attest that there are no ‘Good Dog Calls’ a police officer can be assigned to on duty.

Getting sent to a call involving a dog always includes extra concerns that should be more welcome. Dogs can be unfriendly, mean, unruly, and generally not trustworthy.

Case in point: I have responded to dog calls where the dog got reported missing. It was just across the street and refused to return to its owner. It came to my patrol unit and refused to get out. It insisted on staying, growling when we tried to pick it up and carry it back to its home. I can only guess why it didn’t want to go home.

I have been to dog calls where the dog has bitten a neighbor and had to get put in confinement. The owner objected to the dog’s removal, and a brigade of officers confiscated the dog. The animal control officer was not on duty. So the dog went into the police cruiser and made a hairy mess. It took weeks to get all the fuzz out. No pun intended. Then a day later, and while patrolling through the neighborhood, you see the dog getting walked by the owner’s child. Only to discover they have broken it out of doggy jail. You also have to file more serious charges against the dog owner. Something that you wish didn’t have to happen. The dog is confused over the whole back and forth. The Canine would have been home sooner had the owners only cooperated with the city.

Then, the next step is the crisis intervention, which is your own. It is early in the morning. And dispatch sends you to a home where a pit bull has a family trapped in their home. It will not allow them to get to their cars to leave to go to work or school. You arrive and see this dog running between the front and back doors, preventing the homeowners from exiting the house. You call your backup unit to bring the animal control unit since they are not on duty (as usual). 

The backup officer arrives in the Animal Control Unit—the beauty of every small-town police department. You get the dog loop poles when they arrive and devise a plan. The homeowners will call the dog to the backdoor. This will allow an officer to enter the house through the front door. Then your backup partner will go in the house and go to the back door and call the dog. When he rushes to the back door he will use one of the loop poles. Slipping a loop over the dog’s head. As he does, I will come up from behind and slip a loop over the head. And we will have a two loop pole control of the dog. Then together we will be able to control the animal to get it into the animal control vehicle. As we carry out the plan, the dog fights with all it has. Trying feverishly to bite and attack us. We get it to the truck, lift it in, and slide it into a carrier. Loosening the pole loops, we leave them intact so we can use them when we get out to the shelter. So to place the animal in a pen. We close the gate and say farewell to the family that had got trapped inside their home. Waving to us, they are grateful for our service. The dog is fighting like crazy inside the truck. It sounds like we have the Tasmanian Devil inside.

We drove six miles to the shelter, and our anxiety peaked. We were ready to take on this beast we had struggled with earlier. It is now eerily quiet. We cracked open the gate and took hold of the poles. We tightened the slack in the loops. To make sure the dog had tension around its neck so we can control it. We flipped open the gate, and ––––– NOTHING. The dog was dead. DEAD! IT WAS LIMP.

We are dumbfounded at what the hell happened. We had put it in the back of the truck and drove six miles. An investigation indicated that the dog continued fighting even inside the truck’s cage. And either had a heart attack or choked itself while fighting within the closure. We had no choice but to take the dog to the shelter. Had we left it at large we would have had to fight the dog. And even got put in a position to shoot the animal due to its violence. We intended to try and avoid that scenario, but sadly, it ended the dog’s life anyway.

There is never a good dog call!

A Christmas of Unexpected Gifts

Benjamin3 Comments

This story is pulled from the archives as a celebration for the season edition.

Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–4 minutes

The snow fell gently outside Tom Whitaker’s cabin, blanketing the woods in a serene hush. Inside, the fireplace cast a warm glow, flickering and dancing, casting long shadows on the walls. The smell of pine from the small, undecorated tree in the corner filled the room with a comforting aroma. It was Christmas Eve. Tom, a retired schoolteacher, sat in his favorite armchair. He had a mug of cocoa in hand and a book he couldn’t quite focus on. For the first time in decades, he was spending Christmas alone.

His wife, Evelyn, had passed away three years ago. His grown children were scattered across the country. They were tied up with their own families and commitments. Tom didn’t blame them, but the ache of solitude was undeniable. He declined their offers to join them, insisting he’d be fine alone. He wasn’t.

A knock at the door startled him as he gazed into the fire. Who would visit on a night like this? He opened the door. He found a boy no older than ten. The boy was bundled up in a red coat. He was holding a scraggly puppy with floppy ears.

“Hi, mister,”

the boy said, shivering uncontrollably.

“I found this puppy in the snow. My mom said we can’t keep him, but maybe you can.”

Tom stared at the boy and the trembling pup.

“Come inside before you freeze,”

he said, taking the puppy in his arms.

The boy declined, pointing to a car waiting at the edge of Tom’s driveway.

“Merry Christmas!”

he called as he dashed off.

Tom closed the door, holding the puppy close. The little dog’s brown eyes looked up at him with fear and hope.


“Well, you’re an unexpected guest,”

Tom murmured. He fetched a blanket and some leftover chicken for the pup, who wagged its tail furiously.

Later that evening, as Tom felt less lonely, another knock came. This time, it was Mrs. Abernathy, his elderly neighbor. She held a tin of cookies and a thermos of cider.

“I noticed your lights on,”

she said.

“Thought you like some company.”

She handed him the thermos, and the warm, comforting scent of cider filled the air.

They shared the cookies and cider, laughing about old times and neighbors long gone. Mrs. Abernathy left after an hour, but only after gifting Tom a hand-knitted scarf she had made.

As the clock struck midnight, Tom prepared for bed, his heart a little warmer. The puppy, now curled up in an old basket, barked softly. Another knock came.

“Who now?”

Tom muttered, opening the door.

A group of carolers stood outside, bundled against the cold, their voices harmonizing in “Silent Night.” Behind them was a man from a local grocery store holding a box.

“We’ve got extra holiday meals,”

the man explained after the carolers finished.

“Thought you might enjoy one.”

Tom accepted the box, his throat tight with emotion. Inside were a roast chicken, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and a pie.

As the night wore on, Tom marveled at the change. A Christmas he had dreaded became one filled with unexpected kindness. He sat by the fire with the puppy on his lap. The scarf was around his neck. He held a plate of warm food.

“Merry Christmas,”

he whispered to the little dog, who wagged its tail in agreement. Tom no longer felt alone. His cabin became filled with the spirit of the season through strangers, neighbors, and a small, scruffy pup. The pup found him when he needed it most.

🐕‍🕯️ The Legend of the Kyrkogrim — Sweden’s Black Guardian of the Church

Benjamin2 Comments

By Benjamin H. Groff II | Truth Endures | The Story Teller

2–3 minutes

Tales are whispered across the cold stones of Scandinavia. They speak of an “evil dog” that once haunted the churches of Sweden. But those who truly know the legend say the creature was never evil at all. It was the kyrkogrim — a guardian spirit born not of sin, but of sacrifice.

A Dog Buried Beneath Holy Ground

In the centuries when churches first rose across the Nordic lands, builders followed a chilling custom. To guarantee their new sanctuaries would stand against evil, they buried a living creature beneath the cornerstone. This creature was often a black dog. Its final, terrified breath was thought to bind its soul to the ground, forming a spiritual sentinel.

That spirit became the kyrkogrim: the Church Grim. It was always black as midnight. It was condemned to patrol the churchyard. Its duty was to watch over the graves and keep the devil himself from defiling holy ground.

The Protector and the Omen

By day, the kyrkogrim was invisible. But when night fell and candles flickered low, villagers spoke of seeing the great black hound. It was pacing near the church doors. Its eyes glowed like coals in the dark. It was said to snarl at grave robbers and frighten off witches. Yet, for all its protection, it carried a darker burden.

To see the kyrkogrim was to get a warning. The watcher’s death, it was said, would soon follow. The same spirit shielded the church from evil. It also bore the scent of the grave. This grim paradox kept villagers both thankful and fearful of its presence.

The First Soul of the Graveyard

Long before Christianity spread through Scandinavia, ancient peoples offered animal sacrifices to bless new structures and sacred sites. Early Christian builders, inheriting these customs, altered them to fit their faith. The dog buried beneath the first church became “the first soul” in the graveyard. This ensured that no human would have to linger eternally as the church’s guardian.

Thus, the kyrkogrim was not a monster. Instead, it was a martyr. It symbolized the uneasy blend of pagan ritual and Christian devotion. It was the bridge between two worlds: the old gods of the land and the new God of the heavens.

Echoes Through Time

Even today, stories of the kyrkogrim persist in Swedish folklore. Some say the black dog still walks among the headstones on stormy nights, especially near churches centuries old. Others claim that every church has its own silent watcher — unseen, but always there.

What began as a superstition has evolved into something deeper. It reflects the human need to guard what we hold sacred. The kyrkogrim, once buried in darkness, lives on in story — a faithful spirit that never abandoned its post.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025 

A Story About Tuff – The Dog That Became A Family Legend!

Benjamin2 Comments

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

4–5 minutes

The Legend of Tuff

Tuff!

Tuff was no ordinary dog. He was a broad-chested, mixed-breed bulldog from the dusty plains of western Oklahoma. He was loyal to the core. He was tough as nails—just like his name. He belonged to a boy named JD, and from the moment they met, the two were inseparable.

Wherever JD went, Tuff followed. JD rode across the Caddo and Washita County prairie on his sturdy pony. He even rode it to the one-room schoolhouse west of Eakly. He rounded up cattle on the family farm. Regardless Tuff was there, his paws pounding the dirt in time with the horse’s hooves. At school, while JD sat through his lessons, Tuff stayed with the horse, standing guard like a seasoned sentry. Rain or shine, he never left his post. He stayed until the bell rang. Then, the trio trotted home together, just three-quarters of a mile up the road.

One warm afternoon, while JD was still in school, trouble came calling. A neighbor’s ornery bull had pushed its way through a loosely latched gate and wandered off. As luck would have it, it made its way straight to JD’s homestead, snorting and stomping with agitation. JD’s mother was outside hanging laundry to dry in the Oklahoma breeze. The bull burst through the linens like a locomotive. It tore shirts and sheets from the line as it charged.

Startled, she dropped her clothespin basket and backed toward the yard fence, but there was nowhere left to go. The bull pawed at the dirt, its head low, flaring its nostrils as it prepared to strike. Streaks of foam, mixed with dust and sweat, ran from its mouth. Its bulk towered just yards away from her.

Thinking fast, JD’s mom cupped her hands to her mouth and called out with everything she had:

“Tuff! Ole Tuff! Come on, boy!”

Three-quarters of a mile away, in the tall grass outside the schoolyard, Tuff heard her. His ears perked up. He knew that voice—and he knew something was wrong.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Tuff shot off like a bullet, heading for home. He crossed pasture and ditch, squeezing under fences and dodging brush, driven by pure instinct.

When he arrived, the bull was still threatening JD’s mother. Tuff didn’t bark or hesitate. He charged.

The bull turned at the last second. It was startled and tried to lower its head for a fight. But, Tuff was already on him. He raced in circles, nipping and weaving, confusing the brute. The bull spun to face him again and again, becoming dizzy from the dog’s unrelenting speed.

Then, in one perfectly timed leap, Tuff clamped down on the bull’s nose—hard. The bull bucked and shook, kicked and bawled, but Tuff held firm, teeth sunk deep, refusing to let go. He brought the angry beast to its knees, pinning it in place with nothing but grit and jaw strength.

Just then, a cowboy riding by spotted the commotion. JD’s mother waved him down, shouting, “Ride fast to the Yarnell place! Tell ’em their bull’s out before someone gets hurt!”

The man nodded and galloped off in a cloud of dust.

Within the hour, the Yarnells arrived with ropes, a nose ring, and a long wooden block to secure the bull. The farmer jumped down from his saddle, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I’m real sorry, ma’am,” he said. “I reckon I forgot to latch the gate. Wind must’ve blown it wide open.” He paused, nodding toward the growling dog still latched onto the bull’s nose. “But first, we’re gonna need that dog to let go.”

JD’s mom looked at Tuff, calm and composed despite the ordeal. “Tuff, let go now, boy. Come here.”

Without hesitation, Tuff released the bull and trotted obediently to her side, tongue lolling, chest heaving but proud. The bull didn’t move again until ropes were secured and the men began the long walk back to their farm.

JD’s mom glanced at her watch and smiled. “Tuff, JD’s about to get out of school. You’d better go meet him.”

And with that, Tuff turned and loped back down the road. He was headed to the schoolyard just in time to greet his boy.

That evening, Tuff was treated like a king. JD’s mom gave him the biggest soup bone she’d been saving. He was even allowed to lie on the kitchen floor during supper. This was something normally off-limits. As the family passed dishes and swapped stories, JD’s mom told them what Tuff had done.

The story of Ole Tuff was told time and again. It was passed down through the years by my grandmother and my dad. Every time it was told, Tuff got a little tougher. Tuff got a little braver. Yet, the heart of the story stayed the same.

Because sometimes, legends aren’t born in books or movies.

Sometimes, they’re born in backyards—with a boy, his dog, and a mama hanging laundry.

Kids Raise Funds for Shelter with Lemonade Stand

BenjaminLeave a comment

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

1–2 minutes

“The Lemonade Stand That Changed Everything”

It started with a folding table, two plastic chairs, and a hand-painted sign that read, “Ice Cold Lemonade – 50¢.”

Emma, who is ten years old, and her little brother Caleb had a plan. They decided to spend the first real summer day doing something “big.” Not big like a vacation or fireworks—big like making a difference.

Their mom had mentioned that the animal shelter was trying to raise money. They needed some extra dog beds. They also needed fans for the kennels. That was all Emma needed to hear. She got to work squeezing lemons. She mixed sugar and water. She convinced Caleb that “lemonade manager” was a very important title.

By noon, their little stand was drawing a crowd. The lemonade was refreshing and generously poured. Additionally, Emma had placed a tip jar with a note: All proceeds go to the shelter pups! People smiled. They left five-dollar bills. Some handed over twenties and refused change. One elderly man left a fifty and simply said, “Thank you for reminding me what kindness looks like.”

By the end of the day, they had raised $237.50. They delivered it in person, with sticky hands and sunburned noses, to a surprised and teary-eyed shelter worker. Emma and Caleb even got to name one of the rescued puppies. They chose “Sunny.”

That evening, their mom posted a photo of the kids and their lemonade stand online. It went a little viral. Local news picked it up. The shelter ended up receiving over $3,000 in donations that week. This happened because two kids wanted to do something “big” on a warm summer day.

Now every June, Emma and Caleb set up the stand again, same folding table, same handwritten sign. Only now, the line stretches down the sidewalk. And Sunny? She got adopted. By them, of course.

The Trail Guardians – Chapter Four: Jackie’s Trail

BenjaminLeave a comment

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

4–6 minutes

Sunrise sparkled through the trees, casting golden streaks through the ridge of the canyon as a new day began. The dogs had curled up around Benji during the long night after the wildcat screams. Sleep had eluded him, but at least their warmth had kept the cold at bay.

Jackie the Snake Fighter

Benji checked his backpack. Two cans of Vienna sausages. Two bottles of water. Not much, but enough if he rationed carefully. He didn’t know how long it would be before he saw civilization again. He jumped to his feet. He kicked dirt over the glowing embers of the fire. Then he spotted an old bucket lying in the grass. He fetched water from the same spot where he’d seen the wildcats drink and thoroughly doused the coals.

He whistled and called out,

“Okay, guys! Let’s find our way out of here!”

The dogs were now rested after the brutal meeting with the hogs the day before. They let out a few excited barks. They circled around him. They were ready.

“Jackie!”

Benji called out, his voice clear and hopeful.

“Let’s get going and take us home, girl!”

It was Jackie’s moment to lead.

She barked once, turned, and began moving with purpose down a faint trail. Her nose worked the ground like a compass, tracing the path with quiet certainty. She paused now and then to sniff, confirming her route, then pressed ahead.

Benji followed without hesitation.


“Good girl, Jackie. Take us home.”

As they retraced their steps, Benji noticed something he’d missed before. The chaos of the hog attack had distracted him from exploring further. Just east of where that meeting occurred, he saw something new. It was something he’d only ever heard described in hushed tones: the Bottomless Pits.

He turned to the dogs.

“Come on, guys. We’re close. I need to see this.”

He approached the edge of a steep cliff. It was seventy-five feet straight down to a deep, green pool below. The surface was fed by water trickling from the mouth of a sand rock ridge. “That’s a natural spring,” Benji murmured to himself, “surrounded by vegetation and carved into the canyon by wind and rain.” The erosion had shaped the space into something mysterious and timeless. There was no telling how far the pit actually went.

He stood there, staring into the depths. He imagined what happened to those who had entered “No Man’s Land” and never returned. No sane person would ever try a descent.

The dogs looked at each other, almost as if wondering whether this was going to turn into their next mission. They seemed relieved when Benji turned back and said, “Okay, Jackie. Take us on home.”

Their return journey was quieter, more deliberate. The woods themselves seemed to exhale—less ominous now, more at peace, as if the danger had passed.

Eventually, the familiar rise of Miller Hill came into view. Beyond it stood the barn, and flickering on the porch was the warm, welcome glow of a light. As they emerged from the tree line, Benji spotted people in the clearing. A search party—his father among them, his mother as well. They had been looking everywhere… except in the place no one dared go.

Benji’s dad stepped ahead quickly, his face a mix of relief and frustration.

“Son,”

he said,

“you knew that area was off-limits. No one goes back there. Why did you?”

Benji, still trembling slightly from nerves and exhaustion, answered quietly,

“I wasn’t looking for anything, really. But now I know what’s back there.”

His father narrowed his eyes.

“What? What did you find? No one ever comes back.”

Benji looked him in the eye.


“Feral hogs. Wildcats bigger than our dogs. And pits that look bottomless. I figure the people who disappeared… they didn’t make it out because they were walking in the dark. They either fell in—or the hogs got to them.”

The searchers stood silently for a moment, absorbing his words. Then came relief, and the reunions began.

Benji made a point to thank everyone who’d come looking for him. One by one. Then, he helped lift each of the dogs into the back of his father’s pickup. This time, he insisted they ride up front.

Oggy, Bruiser, and Jackie settled into the cab like visiting royalty, each peering out the windows with pride and dignity. They had saved Benji, and he knew they deserved far more than a truck ride.

The truck rolled down the familiar dirt road toward home. Benji sat in the open bed under the early morning sun. He leaned back. He opened his last two cans of Vienna sausages. Then, he drank from one of his remaining bottles of water. He was there, alone in the quiet. The wind brushed his face. The trees grew smaller behind him. He finally relaxed.

He had made it out of No Man’s Land.

Benji would never forget what he found there. But even better, he wouldn’t forget how his three pals had worked together to take care of him. And when he got home he would tell his dad about the dogs doing the great things they did. He also wanted to repay his canine friends in some way. In Chapter 5, Benji repays them and that is how the story ends in an unexpected way.

How can this story end in any unexpected way? A boy and his dogs have made it out of No Man’s Land. They are safe, aren’t they? We all are, aren’t we? Or are we? What Chapter five holds will have you asking questions of your own. It looks like the dogs will still be looking for a tree or two come Chapter Five!

The Trail Guardians – Chapter Three: Bruiser’s Stand

BenjaminLeave a comment

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

4–6 minutes

Let’s get back to our story. –– Benji stood in the middle of the woods, heart racing, with three feral hogs growling and snorting nearby. Jackie had lost the scent trail. She couldn’t find the way home. Benji had just thrown away his only peace offering: the beef jerky. The hogs tore through the jerky in seconds. Benji and the three dogs tried to figure out what direction to go. But, now those hogs had regained interest in something more satisfying—the boy.

Oggy circled and snapped at the first boar, trying to keep it distracted. Jackie stood stiff and alert. She barked furiously at the second one. Her tail was rigid and her fur was raised. She positioned herself between the beast and Benji.

Bruiser, Dad’s Shadow

But it was Bruiser who took the lead.

With a thunderous bark, he lunged at the second boar. The clash was brutal. Bruiser’s sheer size and strength gave him an edge. Still, the wild boar was enraged and dangerous. It slashed with its tusks.

Benji screamed,

“No! Bruiser!”

But Bruiser didn’t back down. He planted his feet and forced the boar back with muscle and fury. Oggy darted in to nip at the animal’s hind legs while Jackie’s relentless barking finally drove the creature into retreat.

Within moments, the two remaining boars, startled and overwhelmed, turned tail and vanished into the trees.

Bruiser limped back, a fresh gash on his shoulder. Benji dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around him, whispering,

“You saved us. You’re the bravest dog in the world.”

The three dogs surrounded Benji, panting heavily—not from fear, but from duty fulfilled. They had done their job.

The sun had dipped lower now, and the smell of distant cooking reminded Benji of home. He hoped Jackie would catch a scent that would guide them back—but no such luck.

They were still stuck in No Man’s Land.

Benji sighed and looked at his companions.

“Well, boys… looks like we’re gonna be here for a while. As well find a safe place to rest.”

The fading daylight painted the woods in long shadows. The path behind them had become a confusing tangle of trees and underbrush.

“I don’t know where we are,” 

Benji admitted.

Oggy was licking his sore paws. Bruiser winced with every step. Jackie stood alert—ears perked, head rotating like a radar dish, listening for signs of danger.

Benji reached into his backpack and pulled out his trusty binoculars. Scanning the area, he spotted something—a cave etched into the canyon wall, not far off. It resembled an ancient hollow carved out of sandstone by the water long ago. If they can reach it safely, it can make a decent shelter for the night.

He pulled out a handkerchief. He tore it in half. He tied one piece to a high branch to mark the location.

Oggy took point. Bruiser limped beside Benji. Jackie stuck close this time and carefully marked her trail. They made their way to the cave.

Ten minutes later, they arrived at the entrance. The cave was shallow and quiet, with no signs of animal tracks inside. It looked safe—for now.

Benji gathered dead wood from the forest floor and built a small fire at the cave’s entrance. As the flickering flames grew, casting dancing shadows, the four of them settled in.

But Benji had a surprise.

He hadn’t given all the food to the hogs. He had two cans of Vienna sausages tucked in his backpack. They were beneath a rolled-up poncho. His dad always said to keep them in case of emergencies.

He popped open a can. Instantly, three sets of ears perked up.

Benji smiled and shared the sausages with the dogs, eating slowly and grateful that they had something to eat. But he couldn’t help wondering: How are we going to get out of this mess?

As night fell, the forest faded into darkness. The stars lit up the sky, and the wind rustled the trees outside. The cave offered shelter from the breeze, and the dogs took turns keeping watch while Benji dozed beside the fire.

At around three in the morning, a sharp, blood-curdling scream echoed through the canyon.

All three dogs leaped up, growling and tense. Benji jolted awake. The fire had burned down to glowing coals.

Another scream—closer this time.

Benji grabbed a long stick and jabbed it into the embers, trying to spark a flame. The dogs stood bristling, their fur raised, eyes locked on the darkness beyond.

This is the most dangerous moment yet—except maybe for the hogs.

Benji fumbled through his backpack and found a small flashlight. He switched it on and swept the beam across the canyon.

There, near a shallow watering hole, stood two full-grown wildcats—the biggest Benji had ever seen. Easily 130 pounds each. But the barking, the firelight, and the beam of the flashlight startled them. They bolted, disappearing into the trees.

Benji sat back down, heart pounding. Sleep was impossible now.

Thinking to himself –––

Was something else out there?

Has anyone even started looking for him yet?

He’d never been gone this long.

He sighed and pulled the blanket around him tighter.

“When I get back,” 

he whispered to himself

 “I’m gonna be in big trouble. For good this time.”

But for now, he is still in No Man’s Land.

And he is lost.

They called it No Man’s Land for a reason. Legend has it, no man who ever entered those woods was seen again. That little detail? It’s something Benji overlooked when planning his latest adventure. Rumor has it. No search party will go in after him. No one’s willing to take the chance they will not come back either. So maybe Benji ought to start thinking about an extended stay. Is anyone even organizing a search? Or will they just do a flyover, check a few boxes, and call it good? Check back tomorrow as the story continues—because things in No Man’s Land are only getting stranger.

Title: The Trail Guardians – Chapter Two: Into the Hollow

BenjaminLeave a comment

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

2–4 minutes

The trail that day led into Cottonwood Hollow. It was a deep gully nestled between two ridges. The area was thick with ancient trees and the scent of cool, damp earth. Benji had finally summoned the courage to enter what the kids around the farm called “No Man’s Land.”

oggy doggy
Oggy Doggy, The Best Friend A Family Ever Had

Oggy darted ahead, barking sharply as he flushed out a covey of quail.

“Good boy!” 

Benji laughed, breaking into a jog behind him.

Bruiser trotted beside him, his heavy paws crunching over dry leaves. Every time a twig snapped, his muscular body tensed. If the wind shifted, he was ready to protect until he decided there was no danger.

Jackie moved like a ghost, glancing back from time to time, her black-and-white tail swaying gently. She paused here and there to mark tree trunks, just in case they needed help finding the way back.

About halfway through the Hollow, Oggy let out a sharp yip and froze—body crouched low, fur bristling.

Benji halted.

“What is it, boy?”

Then he saw it. A feral boar was rooting near the creek bed. Its coarse hair rose. Its tusks caught the last golden light of the afternoon. Oggy growled, weaving left and right, trying to distract it.

Bruiser stepped in front of Benji and barked once—low and commanding. The boar noticed the big dog and paused, nostrils flaring.

“Back up… slowly,” 

Benji whispered.

They had only taken a few steps when Jackie barked behind them. Benji spun around.

A second boar had crept up from the rear.

Trapped.

Benji’s heart pounded. Feral hogs? He’d never seen any this close to the farm before. His dad’s hogs were penned and docile. These? These had tusks. And just as panic set in, a third hog emerged from the brush, snorting and stomping.

Think, Benji. Think.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pouch of beef jerky—the snack he’d saved for later. Tearing it open, he waved a piece in the air.

The hogs’ heads turned toward the scent. Without wasting a second, Benji hurled the entire pouch as far as he can into the underbrush.

It worked.

All three hogs charged the pouch, squealing and shoving as they fought over the jerky.

Benji snapped his fingers. The dogs hustled back to his side, and together, they crept away.

But now, the sun was dipping low behind the ridge. Shadows stretched across the Hollow, and the light had grown dim. In the chaos, Benji had lost track of their path.

Everything looked the same.

He called softly,

“Jackie, take us home.”

Jackie trotted out, sniffing at nearby logs and bushes, searching for the scent trail she had left. But her markings were gone—wiped away. The boars, rubbing against the trunks and rolling in the undergrowth, had erased everything she’d left behind.

She circled wider, nose to the ground—but still, nothing.

Benji stood in the middle of the woods. Three feral hogs were still growling and grunting in the distance. They were gathered around a torn bag of jerky.

This wasn’t the bedtime story anyone wanted to hear. Was Benji going to stand there—or scoot? Benji doesn’t have beef jerky. What will he and his pals eat for supper if they have to spend the night in the woods? Check back tomorrow. Read Chapter Three to see if he finds his way out. Or will the boy and his dogs get hungry!

Title: The Trail Guardians – Chapter One: The Afternoon Call

BenjaminLeave a comment

Title: The Trail Guardians

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

3–4 minutes
Bruiser, Oggy and Jackie
Bruiser, Oggy and Jackie, three friends that protected Benji.

Every day at exactly 3:35 p.m., the yellow school bus rumbled down the dusty country road. Its brakes squealed in protest. It stopped at the gate of the Miller farm. Waiting by the fence—tails wagging, ears alert—stood three loyal dogs: Oggy, Bruiser, and Jackie.

Oggy, a wiry shepherd-collie mix, zipped back and forth like a bolt of lightning, always the first to move. Bruiser was a proud and imposing German shepherd. His stare could make thunder retreat. He sat like a sentry. His eyes were fixed on the distant tree line. Jackie was a small but wise rat terrier. She lay in the shade, her head tilted. It was as if she was listening to the wind for stories.

Benji stepped off the bus. His backpack bounced and his heart was full of energy. He called out,

“Who’s ready for a hike?”

The dogs barked in harmony. Their daily ritual had begun—school ended, and the adventure began.

The woods, hills, and winding creeks beyond the Miller farm stretched wild and untamed. They were alive with beauty and mystery. There was a kind of danger only country kids and creatures could sense. Benji’s father trusted the dogs with more than just companionship. They each had a job:

Oggy, ever eager, raced ahead to flush out snakes, spook wild hogs, or alert the team to anything unusual. Bruiser stayed at Benji’s side, calm and formidable—his job was protection. Jackie had a sharp nose and clever instincts. She always brought up the rear. She tracked every step and memorized the path home.

Together, they were more than a team. They were guardians: a boy and his dogs, bound by loyalty, instinct, and love.

They had explored nearly every trail across the farm. But there was one place they had never dared to enter.

Benji called it No Man’s Land.

Even the cattle avoided it. Horses snorted and veered away from its edges. Dense with tangled brush, towering trees, and sheer, jagged cliffs, it lay beyond the farthest bend of the creek. You couldn’t see more than a few yards into it, even when standing on the embankment across the water. It was as if the woods had secrets they weren’t ready to share.

Sometimes, the team would gather at that high bank and stare into the thicket. Benji would speak softly as if trying not to disturb whatever is listening.

“What’s back there?”

he’d wonder aloud.

“Nobody’s ever gone in. But one day, we’ll be brave enough to cross that creek and find out.”

He told the dogs his plan: the safest way in would be through Cottonwood Hollow. If they cut through the grove, they would reach No Man’s Land without being seen from the road—or the house.

Before they set off, a familiar sound echoed across the pasture—the dinner bell.

Its clang was sharp and sure, and the dogs didn’t need to be told twice. The four companions turned for home. They momentarily forgot their trail. The promise of a warm meal and kind voices led them back.

They didn’t cross into No Man’s Land that day.

But they would.

And when they did, they’d uncover something none of them would ever have imagined.

Those dogs need to be fed. And it’s a good thing Benji got them home in time for ‘supper.’ Check back for Chapter Two. We’ll find out if the Team gets brave enough to hike into No Man’s Land!

Life with Otis: The Rascal Dog’s Adventures

Benjamin4 Comments

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

1–2 minutes

Otis the Rascal

Our dog Otis is a handful—and that’s putting it mildly. He’s been part of our lives for over eight months now, and frankly, he has us wrapped around his paw. That’s how I see it, anyway.

Each morning, I dig into news articles. Meanwhile, Otis curls up on my lap. He looks like the innocent angel he most definitely is not. Don’t be fooled by the calm exterior—he’s always on high alert. He knows the sounds of the mail truck, the delivery van, and anything that dare to approach our house. With every rumble outside, he barks thunderously. He is desperate to storm the front lines. If only that pesky screened door weren’t in his way.

A simple knock on the door transforms Otis into a spinning, barking whirlwind. Imagine a Tasmanian devil with a bark louder than his bite (but don’t tell him that). He’s so protective that we often must hold him back when company arrives. Sometimes, he gets so worked up. He earns a timeout in his kennel. There, he huffs in protest like a disgruntled dragon.

Sunday was a special day—Otis got to join us for a visit with friends, one of his all-time favorite activities. He made nice with their dog, at least at first. But soon, his sly, bullish side took over. He snatched the ball and refused to return it, parading it like a trophy, asserting his love for socializing.

After a long day of play, Otis stayed awake the entire ride home, refusing to miss a moment. He joined us for some late-night TV, eyes heavy but stubbornly open. When bedtime finally arrived, he collapsed into a deep sleep filled with dreams. He was chasing tennis balls. He also was reliving his glorious day of dominance and friendship. I like to think he also dreamed of the day he outsmarted the mail truck.

Lost in the Forest: A Night of Mystery

BenjaminLeave a comment

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

2–3 minutes

The Night Hunt

It was a night like any other in the deep woods outside Willow Creek. Forty years ago—give or take—a man and his dog set off for one of their usual late-night hunts. The man, grizzled and silent, kissed his wife on the forehead and muttered something about a long run. She barely looked up from her sewing. She was accustomed to his absences. He needed to run beneath the moonlight with only a rifle and his hound for company. She didn’t ask where he went. He never said.

The forest swallowed them quickly. Trees leaned in like eavesdropping strangers, and the undergrowth whispered beneath their boots and paws. The dog was a wiry black mutt with a white streak down its spine. It caught the scent of something just beyond the bend. It bolted. The man, cursing but grinning, gave chase.

They ran deeper and deeper into the overgrown trail for what felt like miles until the land suddenly disappeared.

The dog reached the edge of the cliff first. It barked, wild and electric, then dove headlong into the dark.

The man reached the edge just in time to see nothing at all. No bark. No rustle. There is just silence and blackness below. Without hesitation—without fear—he followed.

And that’s where the story ends, at least in the world we know.

The man awoke beside his dog in another place—somewhere between dream and fog. The stars above were fixed in unfamiliar constellations, and the air hummed with a silence too perfect to be real. He stood, brushed off dust that wasn’t dust, and called out.

No echo returned.

For years—or was it minutes?—he and the dog wandered this pale mirror of the forest they once knew. Sometimes, they saw flickers of their old lives. His wife was crying at the hearth. His brother was digging through the old footlocker for the will. But they couldn’t speak, they couldn’t reach, they only watched.

The man no longer aged. The dog’s coat remained pristine. Together, they waited—for what, neither capable of saying.

Then, one night, they heard something rustling through the brush ahead. They walked a trail that hadn’t been there before. The dog tensed. The man raised his hand. A shape moved—slowly, purposefully.

It was another hunter. Rifle slung over his shoulder. Dog at his side. Eyes vacant. He looked familiar.

The man called out. The hunter looked through him, then walked past.

The dog growled, uneasy.

And from the darkness behind them, a second pair of footsteps began to follow. They had found the lost forest of hunters who had died without a place to go.

Lessons from Bill: Radio Adventures and Childhood Memories

Benjamin3 Comments

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

4–7 minutes

I have many stories about growing up. Sometimes, I wonder how I fit everything I did into the years leading to where I am now. As a young teen, I always felt my family was boring. We never seemed to do anything special. But when I share our family stories today, people tell me they spark their forgotten memories. They bring back moments they thought were lost.


One such story involves our neighbors, Bill and his wife, Marie. They rescued every stray dog they found and invited each one into their growing pack.


I first met Bill while riding my bike home from a friend’s house. He had stopped his car to get the mail from his old roadside mailbox. I couldn’t help but stop and say hello. I asked him where he lived. He pointed across the road toward a distant antenna. It stood tall above the trees. “Right under that antenna,” he said with a smile. I had watched that antenna for years. It was massive. It perched on rotating poles to turn the shortwave and CB radio antennas in any direction he wanted. Seeing my interest, Bill invited me to visit the next day—but told me to check with my parents first.


I didn’t know it then, but Bill had been instrumental in bringing electricity to our area through a rural cooperative. He’d helped light up countless homes across several counties. My parents permitted me to visit but warned me not to overstay my welcome.


The next day after school, I finished my chores and pedaled toward Bill and Marie’s. As I left the paved road and turned onto the dirt path, barking erupted. A pack of dogs rushed to greet me, but they wagged their tails instead of attacking and licked my hands. It was like I was the first human they’d seen in years. They crowded around me, gently herding me up the porch steps. I reached for the doorbell, but before pressing it, the dogs nudged me ahead, practically carrying me into the house.


“Hello? Anyone home?”

I called out.


Marie’s sweet voice answered from the kitchen,

“I bet you’re JD’s boy. Bill told me you’d be stopping by. He’ll be out in a minute—say hello to the family.”


She gestured toward the dogs as she named them individually, expecting me to remember each name. There had to be twenty dogs in that living room alone. As I looked around, another thought puzzled me: how did she know I was my dad’s son? I hadn’t even introduced myself yet.
A moment later, Bill entered, smoking his pipe, followed by four more dogs circling his legs. He shook my hand warmly and led me into his den, where I would spend hours learning from him. Bill introduced me to the world of shortwave radio and explained how to get a license. He even lent me a Morse code training record to help me prepare for the exam.


But radios were just the beginning. Bill showed me his greenhouse, where he taught me how starting seedlings early gives a head start in spring. One day, he took me to another outbuilding—a woodworking shop filled with the scent of freshly cut lumber. There, he showed me how he crafted furniture and home goods, staining and treating each piece with care.


When I was almost sixteen, Bill revealed yet another surprise: a mechanic’s shop hidden behind his house. Inside sat an old Datsun pickup.

“I haven’t driven it in years,”

Bill admitted,

“but it’s still here.”


I could feel the gears turning in my head. I was about to get my driver’s license, and that old truck looked like the perfect first car. Before I said anything, I knew I had to check with my dad.
When I asked, my dad said,

“We can look at it.”

To me, that was a yes.


The next day, I returned to Bill’s and asked if he might be interested in selling the truck.
Bill chuckled.

“I never thought about selling it—but if the price is right, maybe.”


“I’ll need a car when I get my license,”

I told him.

“And my dad said we could take a look.”


“Bring your dad down,”

Bill grinned,

“and we’ll talk.”


Dad and I stood in Bill’s mechanic shop a week later, looking over the Datsun. Bill puffed his pipe thoughtfully.

“It ran fine when I parked it. Might go ten miles, might go another hundred thousand. Hard to say with an old truck.”

He smiled at Dad.

“You know how it is with cars.”


Then Bill turned to me.

“I’ll talk price with the boy. You’re too good a horse trader for me to haggle with.”


My dad laughed.

“You know what you’ve got in your savings,”

he told me.

“Don’t spend more than that—and don’t forget tax, title, and insurance.”


At that moment, I felt the weight of adulthood settling on my shoulders. I bartered with Bill for ten minutes, careful with every dollar. Later, I discovered an interesting fact about Bill and my dad. They had been late-night radio buddies for years. They even arranged for a state newspaper courier to toss them papers at a secret highway drop each morning.


I kept visiting Bill and Marie for years. As I grew older, I began to understand Marie’s quiet burdens. They were things I wish I’d been capable of helping with then. I only understood them now, knowing what I know. Bill and his beloved dogs carried on their calm, legendary life on the edge of town.


No one else ever visited them—not like I did. And sometimes, I wonder if that had been the plan all along.


Bill and Marie passed away in the 1990s. Per their wishes, their property was sold to help the local community center. Their home, once full of vibrant life with voices, radio signals, and loyal dogs, became part of something greater. It was destined to be that way.

Every time I turn on a radio, I still feel them with me. When I smell fresh-cut wood or see an old pickup truck, I also think of them. Their stories live on—in mine.

The Great Dog Escape: A Story of Resourcefulness

BenjaminLeave a comment

GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©s

2–3 minutes

Huey sat in the corner of the kennel, ears perked, eyes darting toward the metal gate between them and freedom. Max, his trusted partner, paced back and forth, tail flicking with nervous energy. Around them, the others—Spike, Bella, and Rufus—pretended to be sleeping, but they were all listening, waiting for the signal.


“Tonight’s the night,”

Huey whispered.

“The screws turn in at nine. We give ’em an hour, then we move.”

Max nodded.

“Bella, you’re on distraction. Get that yapper down the row to start barking. When the guard checks on him, we make our move.”


Bella wagged her tail.

“Piece of kibble.”


Spike chimed in,

“I got the latch covered. I’ve been watching the humans do it for weeks. I think I can pop it.”


“Good,”

Huey said.

“Once we’re out, we head for the back gate. Rufus, you still got that big brute act down?”


Rufus grinned, his jowls flopping.

“One good growl and the yard mutt will scatter.”


The plan was perfect. They had worked out every detail. The humans thought they were dumb dogs, but they’d prove them wrong tonight.


The lights went out, and the night settled over the pound. A low growl rumbled from the cage at the far end. Right on cue, the little yapper started up. Bella joined in, then Spike, then the whole row. Sure enough, heavy boots clomped down the hall. The guard muttered something about “dumb mutts” and stomped off to quiet them down.


“Go time,”

Huey whispered.


Spike reached through the bars, jiggling the latch—a click. The gate swung open. One by one, they slipped out, moving fast and low, paws silent on the concrete. They were almost to the back gate when Max skidded to a stop.


“What is it?”

Huey hissed.


Max’s eyes gleamed in the dark. His tail quivered.

“Bone.”


Huey sighed.

“Forget it, we gotta—”


“Bone,”

Max repeated, but the others saw it, too. A big, juicy, perfectly gnawed bone, lying right there, almost like fate had placed it in their path.


Rufus whined.

“It’s beautiful.”


“No time!”

Huey barked.

“We gotta go!”


Max, still, had already lunged for it. Spike growled, trying to shove him aside. Bella snapped at them both. Chaos erupted. Snarls and yips filled the air.


Lights flicked on. A door slammed. The humans were coming.


“Run!”

Huey yelled, but it was too late.


A net came down over Rufus. Bella yelped as a leash snapped around her neck. Huey dodged left, but a firm hand grabbed his collar.


Max? He was still chewing.


The next day, they sat in their cages, tucked tails, watching the humans talk about “bad dogs” and “extra security.”


Max sighed, staring at the bone still sitting outside the fence.

“Worth it.”


Huey groaned.

“Next time, we leave you behind.”


But they all knew there would be a next time. Because a good dog never quits, and a great dog always has another plan.

The Little Puppy That Was Capable To Do What Others Said Thought He Couldn’t

BenjaminLeave a comment

Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

2–3 minutes

A small town was nestled by rolling hills and surrounded by fields of wildflowers. In it, there lived a scrappy little puppy named Patches. He was a mix of this and that, with one ear that stood up and the other that flopped down. Patches was small for his age. But, he had something that set him apart. He leaped higher than any dog anyone had ever seen.

At first, no one noticed Patches’ gift. He spent his days chasing butterflies and rolling in the grass like any other puppy. It was a sunny afternoon. The town’s children were setting up a lemonade stand. A gust of wind came through and carried their banner high into the branches of an old oak tree.

“Oh no!”

“How will anyone know about our lemonade?”

Cried Emily, the youngest of the children.

Patches, who had been snoozing nearby, perked up. He tilted his head, wagged his tail, and, without hesitation, bounded toward the tree. He made a mighty leap and soared through the air. He snatched the banner in his teeth. Then, he landed gracefully on the ground.

The children cheered.

“Patches saved the day!”

From that moment on, Patches became the town’s little hero. Patches fetched lost kites from rooftops. He rescued baby birds from precarious ledges. Simply bringing smiles with his high-flying antics was enough to prove his worth. Patches proved that being small didn’t mean you couldn’t do big things.

One day, during the annual Harvest Festival, a gust of wind toppled the mayor’s prized pumpkin from the display podium. The enormous gourd rolled straight toward a table of pies, threatening to ruin the event. The crowd gasped.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Patches darted into action. He landed on the pumpkin with a mighty leap, planting his tiny paws firmly to slow its roll. The pumpkin came to a stop just inches from the table. The crowd erupted into applause, and the mayor declared Patches the town’s official mascot.

From then on, Patches wore a little red cape stitched by Emily’s grandmother. Wherever he went, he reminded everyone that sometimes, the smallest among us can do the most extraordinary things.

A Dog Will Always Keep You Honest – Truly!

Benjamin3 Comments

Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

2–4 minutes

They will always find ways to expose the truth whenever it is necessary. A dog will keep you honest because they are always watching you. They know everything you do. They hear everything you say.

Take, for example, Otis, a Jack Russell Terrier with soulful eyes and a tail that wagged like a metronome. Otis belonged to Ben and Steve, who pride themselves on being organized and composed. But Otis saw through it all. He knew when Steve “accidentally” skipped the morning bike ride. Steve chose instead to lounge in his recliner with a cup of coffee. Steve tried to cover up his lapse in discipline. He mentioned a “hectic morning” to explain his work demands. Otis carried the bike shorts he had abandoned by the door into the middle of the living room. His silent reproach was explicit.

Dogs, after all, have a way of sniffing out the truth—not just with their noses but with their instincts. Otis had a keen sense of timing. He knew when Ben told little white lies to his mother over the phone. Ben claimed his last doctor’s appointment suggested he was healthy. Meanwhile, he was polishing off a bag of chips. Otis would sit by his feet. He stared intently, daring Ben to admit to the salty crunch he tried to hide. Finally, Ben conceded and gave Otis a chip. He did it to keep Otis quiet during the phone conversation.

But Otis’s honesty wasn’t just about catching lies. He had an uncanny ability to bring clarity to the chaos. One summer, Ben and Steve’s neighbor, Mary, argued about a missing garden gnome. Steve assured Mary they hadn’t seen it. Yet, when they let Otis out that evening, he returned with the gnome in his jaws, proudly wagging his tail. Maybe Ben and Steve had borrowed it. Or Otis had “borrowed” it himself. The truth stood on four legs, panting happily.

Otis also kept Steve honest about his emotions. When Steve plastered on a smile for his colleagues after a lousy day, Otis knew better. He’d gently nudge Steve’s arm. Sometimes, he laid his head on Steve’s lap. This grounded Steve with the companionship that didn’t tolerate pretending. Dogs don’t care for masks; they prefer the raw, unfiltered you.

And that’s the magic of a dog’s honesty. They don’t demand perfection—they demand authenticity. They hold you accountable not with judgment but with love. Otis didn’t care if Steve skipped a bike ride. He didn’t care if Ben ate chips or if there had been a misplaced garden gnome. What mattered was that they learned to face the truth. It was messy, but they became a better version of themselves because of it. Otis is a good boy, and he proved it, by helping others be good!

A dog will always keep you honest because they never stop believing in the good in you. They don’t just witness your life—they join in it, gently guiding you toward honesty in ways only a dog can.

If you have room in your heart and home for a pet, consider visiting your local animal shelter. These shelters hold loving animals waiting for a second chance to find their forever family. Adopting a pet changes their life and brings warmth, joy, and companionship to your own. A new furry friend can be the missing piece that turns your house into a proper home.

Otis The Dog That Trouble Finds

BenjaminLeave a comment

Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro.

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II© 

One sunny morning, Otis, a slick Jack Russell Terrier with a gleam in his eyes

and mischief in his heart, woke up. His fur was a brilliant shade of gold, shimmering in the sunlight, and his tail wagged with such enthusiasm that it could power a windmill. The day started innocently enough; we had breakfast at our favorite restaurant and came home. With his wagging tail and big, innocent eyes, Otis welcomed us home and helped us as we tidied up around the house. But Otis is no ordinary dog—trouble seems to find him as a squirrel finds an acorn. He gets these spurts of energy known well as zoomies.

It’s like he’s a magnet for mishaps, a walking comedy show. Wherever he goes, calamity follows. He’s so adorable that it’s impossible not to chuckle when his wrecking ball hits.

It wasn’t long before Otis’s nose led him to the kitchen. The scent of freshly baked bread cooling on the counter was just too tempting. He stood on his hind legs, stretching his neck as far as it would go. Just then, a slight breeze blew through an open window, knocking a paper off the fridge and startling Otis. He yelped and bumped into the counter in a flurry of fur and paws. The bread tumbled down, landing squarely on the floor.

When we walked in, Otis stood over the fallen loaf, his big, brown eyes looking up at us with a mix of innocence and apology. His expression seemed to say, “I didn’t mean to!” It’s hard not to forgive him when he looks at you like that.

We sighed but couldn’t help the tiny smile tugging at your lips. Before picking up the bread, Otis had darted out of the room, ears flapping, tail wagging like a flag, and disappeared into the yard.

As the day went on, Otis’s streak of bad luck continued. While exploring under the porch, he got tangled in a ball of twine that a handyman had left behind. Emerging from the shadows, he looked wide-eyed and confused, like a dog-sized spider web. The neighbors couldn’t help but chuckle when they saw him, tangled and guilty-looking. One even offered to help untangle him, but Otis, being Otis, managed to free himself in a comical fashion.

Capping off his day – Otis’s curiosity got the best of him once more when he found a potted plant by the front door. It only took a nudge from his nose for the pot to tip over, spilling soil all over the welcome mat. He sniffed the dirt, sneezed, and left tiny paw prints leading to his bed, where he flopped down, exhausted.

When found, he looked up with that sweet, guilty face as if saying, I swear, I don’t know how it happened!

Despite the chaos, we knelt and scratched behind his ears. Otis nuzzled into my hand, eyes closing in contentment. As much trouble as he got into, he was ours, and those mishaps only make our days a little more memorable—and a lot more fun. His presence, filled with joy, even amid his mischievous adventures, is a constant reminder of the happiness pets bring into our lives.

The Heartwarming Story of Jello: From Community Beloved Dog to Honorary Mayor of Millbrook

BenjaminLeave a comment

Jello, a spirited dog with golden fur, floppy ears, and a tail that wagged like a metronome, lived in the quaint town of Millbrook. He was a free spirit, beloved by all, and a fixture of the community, embodying the warmth and unity of Millbrook.

Jello had his routines. Every morning, he would trot to the bakery where Mrs. Thompson would have a fresh scone waiting for him. Then, he’d visit the school playground, where children would shower him with affection and sneak him bits of their lunches. Jello often spent afternoons lounging in the sun outside the library, where Mr. Caldwell would read to him from the latest novels. By evening, he would make his rounds at the town square, greeting everyone with a joyful bark before curling up under the big oak tree for the night. The community’s love for Jello was palpable, creating a sense of unity and togetherness.

The townspeople adored Jello so much that someone humorously suggested nominating Jello for Mayor when the mayoral election came around. The idea quickly gained traction. “Who better to represent our town than Jello?” they said. “He’s loyal, kind, and brings everyone together.” And so, in an unprecedented turn of events, Jello’s name appeared on the ballot.

As the election drew near, excitement buzzed through Millbrook. Posters of Jello, donning a makeshift mayoral sash, adorned shop windows and bulletin boards. The slogan “A Mayor Who Cares” echoed through the streets. But a week before the election, something terrible happened: Jello went missing.

Panic spread like wildfire. Where could he be? The entire town, deeply concerned, rallied to search for him. Kids formed search parties, calling his name through the woods and fields. Shopkeepers closed early to join the search; even the local police were on high alert. There were flyers everywhere: ‘Missing: Jello. Our Town Hero. Please Help!’. The town’s reaction to Jello’s disappearance was a testament to their deep empathy and concern.

As days passed with no sign of Jello, whispers of foul play began to circulate. The thought was too dreadful to bear, but the town’s unity shone through their worry. They held candlelight vigils, their collective hope a beacon in the darkness, a testament to their resilience and unity.

On the eve of the election, a familiar bark echoed through the town square just as hope was waning. It was Jello, looking a bit dirty and tired but otherwise unharmed. The townspeople greeted Jello with cheers and tears of joy. Mr. Caldwell, who had been leading a search party near the old mill, found him trapped in an abandoned shed, likely having chased a squirrel inside and gotten stuck.

The town’s relief was palpable. Shopkeepers cleaned him up, fed him his favorite treats, and gave him more attention. Election day arrived, and with Jello safe and sound, the town celebrated their unusual but heartwarming choice for Mayor. After tallying the votes, it was no surprise that Jello won by a landslide. Although the title of Mayor was symbolic, the gesture embodied the spirit of Millbrook: a community united by love, kindness, and the belief that sometimes the best leaders remind us of the simple, unspoken bonds we share.

Jello, the dog who roamed freely but belonged to everyone, was now the honorary Mayor of Millbrook. His tale became a cherished legend, reminding all who heard it of the power of community and the unexpected ways in which leaders can emerge.