“Hey there, your fav Bulldog Omaha reporting. Dodged the celery at the Café, found my lost squeaky burger, tackled the hardware store ‘security’ gig, and survived Edna’s book club. Just another day in Pawsburg where I’m woofing and snoozing my way to earn my title – man’s best friend. Informal salutations, Omaha”

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“Omaha here, your favorite surly English Bulldog on the Pawsburg beat and, yeah, I’ve got a story to tell. It was a day like any other, woke up to the salty sea breeze mixed with that earthy smell from the garden, carried all the way up to the lofty bedroom window by a less-than-welcome morning sunbeam.

Decided to pop by The Chow Hound Café for my morning dose of tuna. Bart, the barmy basset hound behind the counter, tries to slide me a celery laden number. I told him, ‘Bart, you couldn’t pay me enough tuna patties in the world to touch that celery.’ Of course, that earned a round of barks from the morning crowd.

Even Sam gave me a nod from his usual corner, gabbing away with his jumble of catchphrases. Swear he spends more time at the Café than his own birdcage next door.

Decided to head to work, figured I might drop by Woof and Whisker Wellness Center afterward for a relaxing soak. My joints were acting up, a bulldog’s burden you could say.

Took a detour through Cream Maltese Meadow, and stub my paw on this, my grubby but treasured squeaky hamburger. Now, I use the term ‘squeaky’ loosely as it hadn’t squeaked since Bush was in office. Buried it myself last year, sure did. But who’s been digging up my treasures? That’s a mystery for another time.

As the illustrious ‘security guard’ at The Howling Husky Hardware Store, you bet I had a day packed with, well, sleeping. Initiative’s overrated when you’ve got a snout like mine. Diesel passed by with the usual mail delivery, ‘Morning Omaha, another hard day at work?’ he’d ask, a smirk on his snout. That beanpole Shepherd thought he was a regular riot.

Swung by Bark and Bites for lunch, narrowly avoiding another ‘celerygate.’ Headed home, high time I caught up on some sunbathing on the porch.

Edna, in her infinite wisdom or another bout of her forgetfulness, left the book club over at our place. A gaggle of human hens clucking over the crime of the century or the latest dishy detective novel, whatever keeps them entertained.

I made my ceremonious appearance before retreating upstairs, basking in the safety of my couch throne, my true Pawsburg kingdom.

Days as an English Bulldog in Pawsburg aren’t always as eventful, but, man’s best friend is a title that needs to be earned, gone fishing or not.”

The End.

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