The Prenatal Memoirs of Sir Banjo Barkley the Third

The Prenatal Memoirs of Sir Banjo Barkley the Third

I am Sir Banjo Barkley the Third, heir to the noble lineage of Barkley’s, destined to be the most glorious puppy ever to grace the linoleum floors of 25B Twain Street. I am currently residing in the womb of Lady Barkarella Barkley, my mother, who is – how shall I put this delicately? – a bit of a drama queen with a penchant for chewing antique furniture and barking at existential threats like vacuum cleaners.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “How can an unborn puppy narrate his own story?” To which I say: How dare you question my cognitive prowess? I’ve read War and Peace twice (in utero), and I’m currently halfway through a dissertation on rabbit psychology. My neural development is, frankly, ahead of schedule.

Anyway, let me tell you about the time I solved a mystery, uncovered a conspiracy, and possibly hallucinated a talking goldfish. All before I was born…

Chapter One: The Womb with a View

The womb is not as boring as you might think. Sure, it’s a bit squishy, and the Wi-Fi is terrible, but it’s got ambience. I’ve decorated my corner with imaginary velvet curtains and a chaise lounge made of amniotic fluid. My siblings (six of them!) are less refined. They spend their time kicking each other and arguing over who the runt is. I, of course, am the alpha. Not because I’m bigger (I’m actually pretty close to being the runt myself), but because I have vision. I’ve already planned my postnatal career: Therapy dog by day, mystery-solving detective by night. I’ll wear a monocle. Possibly a cape.

Something had been off lately. Lady Barkarella had been muttering in her sleep. Strange things. “The prophecy… the pawprint… the forbidden kibble…” At first, I assumed she was just reciting Shakespeare in her dreams again. After all, she’s always had a flair for the dramatic. But then I overheard the humans.

Chapter Two: The Humans Are Up to Something

The humans (Mr. and Mrs. Kemper) are a curious species. Mr. Kemper wears socks with sandals and talks to bonsai trees. Mrs. Kemper is a retired opera singer who practices arias while baking meatloaf. They are, in short, eccentric, which I respect. But last Tuesday, I heard them whispering in the kitchen.

“She’s due in two weeks,” said Mrs. Kemper. “What if the seventh one is… different?”

Mr. Kemper looked around nervously. “We swore never to speak of the prophecy.”

I perked up. Prophecy? That’s my kind of plot twist!

They continued. “The seventh pup, born under the eclipse, will either save the world… or chew it to pieces.”

I did some quick math. There are seven of us. I’m the seventh! Eclipse? Check. World domination? Double check. Clearly, I was destined for greatness. Or doom. Either way, it was going to be fabulous!

Chapter Three: The Goldfish Oracle

Now, this is where things get weird…

I was meditating (prenatal yoga is excellent for tail flexibility) when I heard a voice. It was raspy, aquatic, and slightly British.

“Sir Banjo,” it said. “You must listen carefully.”

I blinked. “Who’s there?”

“I am Lord Bubbles, the goldfish in the upstairs bathroom. I communicate via plumbing vibrations.”

Naturally, I was sceptical. But he knew things. He told me about the prophecy, the ancient feud between dogs and rabbits, and the secret society of cats that controls global tuna supply.

“You must be born with your eyes open,” he said. “Only then can you see the truth.”

“But puppies are born blind,” I protested.

“Not if you believe hard enough,” he replied.

I decided to believe. I also decided Lord Bubbles might be a figment of my imagination. But he was entertaining, so I decided to treat him as real enough.

Chapter Four: The Rabbit Conspiracy

I began to notice patterns. Lady Barkarella barked every time a rabbit passed the window. Not just any bark – the bark of ancestral warning. I realised the rabbits were spying on us. Possibly working for the cats. I shared my theory with my siblings. They were unimpressed.

“You’re not even born yet,” said Muttlock, the largest of us. “You think you’re Sherlock Bones or something?”

“I prefer Lord Valiant,” I replied.

They rolled their eyes. But I knew I was onto something. The rabbits were planning something big. Possibly involving carrot-based explosives…

Chapter Five: The Great Escape Plan

I had to get out. I couldn’t wait two more weeks. The world needed me. I began training. I did push-ups (mentally), practiced barking (telepathically), and tried to chew my way out (unsuccessfully). I even attempted to bribe the placenta. No luck.

Then I had an idea. If I could convince Lady Barkarella to eat copious amounts of spicy meatloaf, maybe it would trigger early labour. I sent subliminal messages during her dreams.

“Eat the meatloaf,” I whispered. “Extra chilli flakes…”

It worked. Sort of. She ate the meatloaf, barked at the moon, and then fell asleep on the rug. I remained unborn.

Chapter Six: The Truth Revealed

Then came the twist.

Lord Bubbles returned with urgent news.

“The prophecy was mistranslated,” he said. “It’s not the seventh pup, it’s the seventy-seventh.”

“But there are only seven of us!”

“Exactly. You’re not the chosen one. You’re just… dramatic.”

I was devastated. My monocle dreams shattered. My cape plans unravelled. I was just a regular pup, that was possibly delusional.

But then I realised something.

I had already lived a life of adventure, mystery, and goldfish hallucinations. And I hadn’t even been born yet!

Chapter Seven: The Prenatal Trial of Sir Banjo Barkley the Third

I awoke to a courtroom. Not a metaphorical one – a full-blown, amniotic tribunal. The walls were made of squishy membrane, the judge was a stern looking umbilical cord in a powdered wig, and the jury consisted of five of my six siblings, all glaring at me with varying degrees of prenatal contempt.

“This courtroom is now in session,” boomed the cord. “The case of Sir Banjo Barkley the Third vs. Reality.

I adjusted my imaginary monocle and stood proudly. “I plead not guilty to all charges of delusion, exaggeration, and unsolicited prophecy.”

Muttlock, the self-appointed prosecutor, slammed his paw against a gelatinous podium. “Your Honour, the defendant claims to have spoken to a goldfish, uncovered a rabbit conspiracy, and rewritten his own destiny. He is clearly unfit for postnatal society.”

“Objection!” I barked. “Lord Bubbles is an aquatic scholar, and the rabbits are real. I’ve seen them.”

“Your eyes are not open,” Muttlock hissed.

“Details.”

The jury murmured. Wiggles raised a paw. “I move we consider leniency. He’s entertaining, and frankly, the womb is boring.”

“Seconded,” said Clawdius, who had recently taken up prenatal slam poetry and appreciated my flair for drama.

“The judge cord wiggled thoughtfully. “Very well. We shall proceed to the final test: The Trial of Truth.”

A spotlight appeared – don’t ask me how – and I was handed a rattle. “This is the Sceptre of Truth,” the judge intoned. “Now, speak only the truth while holding it.”

I cleared my throat. “I am Sir Banjo Barkley the Third. I am destined for greatness. I have spoken to a goldfish. I may have invented the prophecy. I may have invented the goldfish. But honestly? It was a blast!”

Gasps echoed through the room.

The jury conferred. Muttlock looked annoyed. Clawdius looked inspired. The judge cord wiggled solemnly.

“Verdict: Unreliable. But charming. Sentence: Birth.”

Epilogue: Birth Day

I was born on a Tuesday. Eyes closed, tail wagging, heart full of hope. The humans cooed. Lady Barkarella licked my head. My siblings snuggled close. And, somewhere, in the upstairs bathroom, Lord Bubbles burbled mysteriously.

I may not be the chosen one, but I am Sir Banjo Barkley the Third. And my story is just beginning.