“Hey Ma n Pa, guess who became ‘The Pet Bachelor’ of Pawsburg, starring in a fur-flying circus instead of downing margheritas or exploring the backyard! Rather fetch a deflated basketball than glammed-up gals. It’s all bark and no bite tho, still the one-woman dog. Wagging this tale with smiles! Licks n tail wags, Stinky Bum.”

Listen to the story here

Alright, allow me to spill the beans about another spirited night in Pawsburgh. You’re in for a tail-wagging treat. Picture this: Mr. Truck, our robust, furgeist of a bulldog, who can find more joy in a deflated basketball than we could in a decade of weekends, was slated as Pawsburg’s ‘The Pet Bachelor.’

“Mr. Truck! The sought-after, the delicious,” cried the poster. My wrinkled mug took up half the poster real estate. Sure, folks admired me for my canine street cred, but being a bachelor, that was another tale.

Our hometown, Pawsburgh, a woof wonderland for us adventurous doggos when our pet parents snoozed off. Fawn Cream Maltese Meadow was where we frolicked. Northern Choco Chihuahua Castle, where we held hush-hush doggo discussions.

Now, imagine me: a bulldog known more for his love of quiet backyard snoozes than casting eyes over potential girlfriends. But, the show folks had different ideas. Paws a moment here, for the absurdity.

My frequented joints were gussied up. Pup-Tastic Pizza, where I’d slurped my favorite margherita pizza, was now some chic dining spot. Ruff-n-Ready was filled with tuxedoed Dobermans warming up their vocal cords.

Let me bark straight, I’m no canine Casanova. My heart doesn’t quicken at the sight of a perfectly coiffed poodle, nor does it flutter at the fluttering eyelashes of a dolled-up Dalmatian. Nah, this bulldog’s more about the introspective side of life. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the beer I had a bone to pick with.

“This is all in good fun, Truck,” Sadie, the spaniel from the salon, tried to convince me—in the style of submitting a large soup bone her motivation was clear. “You just have to pick one. Or give her the biggest bone you have.”

I should have been at The Pampered Pooch, or lapping my favorite Fettuccini Alfredog at Kibble Cuisine. The dog park was the last place I wanted to be, in the middle of a series of squealing she-dogs, pandering for my attention.

“Mr. Truck,” squealed a petite Pomeranian, “noticed my new fur? It’s sooo you.”

I wanted to remind her that, “my dear, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m a one-woman dog.” But instead, I gave her my perfected please-save-me gaze.

Seriously, how did I end up here when I could have been sunbathing or conquering the seven continents on a joyride with my human? Ah, but this bulldog isn’t one to back away from a challenge. So, you can bet your last biscuit I stuck it out until the end of that canine courting circus.

Why? Because I’m Mr. Truck. The margherita-slurping, backyard-explorer, beer-despising bulldog, who’d rather play fetch with a deflated basketball than play bachelor in a showy spectacle. And despite the chaos, the commotion and the amusingly absurd romantic gestures, I couldn’t help but join the dogged spirit of my fellow Pawsburgh pals in good-hearted fun. The tale is as worthy of wagging as any other!