Hey there,

Just wrapped up some canine drama at the Pug Palace; a dash of diplomacy, a smattering of squeaky ball induced terror, and a bouillabaisse of camaraderie! Pawsburg is a land of squirrels, steaks, and me being an undercover political doggie demigoddess. Our wild tail wagging world, eh?

Wish you were here,

The Bark Godmother, Zira

Listen to the story here

As I sit at my post, chewing on last week’s tennis ball, I can’t help but recount the events of last night with a sense of wonder, an existential furrowing of my canine brow. For I, Zira, queen of Pawsburg, was no less the dog than I ought to have been.

Yes, Pawsburg, an enclave for the enlightened canine, a realm where dreams unfold with the luscious luxury of a perfectly grilled steak, sizzling in its delightful steaminess. But I digress.

It was an ordinary day, for the most part. I had spent my morning in Crestwood Park reveling in the unmatchable ecstasy only freshly cut grass and warm sun can bring. I was practicing my important role as the watchdog of the park when the call came.

“Zira,” came the deep, gravelly voice, like the low hum of a contented Mastiff, “we need ya at the Western Fawn Pug Palace.”

He didn’t have to explain. As an American Pitbull Terrier of some repute in Pawsburg, I was no stranger to trouble. And trouble is exactly what simmered beneath the collect call from the Palace: Pawsburg’s thorny bastion of pug politics and power struggles.

Gathering my nerve and my favorite tennis ball, I raced over to the Palace, eyes as intense and icy as the call’s weight on this pulchritudinous day. Why, I often wondered, couldn’t Pawsburg be just a sanctuary where squirrels danced and pathways abounded with intoxicating whiffs of mystery?

But there it stood, the Palace. Pug lords waited with baited breath as I walked in. “What’s the job, then?” Remembering, of course, to use the preferred lingo. Our conversations would often make Mr. Whiskers roll his eyes in snobbish feline disdain.

The details need not concern us, for who would wish to taint such a tranquil recollection with the sordid nuances of canine governance? Suffice to say, my services were required, as a balancing figure in the tumultuous landscape of Pawsburg. They needed diplomacy, not force…

So, in true Godfather style, I arranged a meet at Pupperoni Pizza, under the pretense of a casual dinner. After all, who could resist the familiar, tantalizing aroma of sizzling pepperoni pizza? Except for that time they tried to introduce a citrusy pie. Why a dog would choose lemon on pizza over grilled steak is beyond my understanding…

As for what went down…Well, let’s just say I’m glad I chomped on my squeaky ball to conceal my anxiety. A few whiffs and clear heads, the discord was settled. The night unfolded into an odd dance of jest, camaraderie, and an exchange of grilled steaks under the twinkling stars of Pawsburg.

Later, as I lay in Lower Golden Gate Gardens, my kingdom bathed in a tranquil silence, Lady nestled by my side, and the haughty silhouette of Mr. Whiskers policing the perimeter: I contemplated my place in the grand scheme of this dog-eat-dog world. After all, balancing an empire might be a high-stakes game, but what would it signify if I ever lost sight of the tennis ball that lies at the heart of it?

This had been Pawsburg…a land where dreams and reality intertwine in the most sprightly manner, as long as you have friends like Mr. Whiskers and Lady by your side. And somewhere between the squirrels, steaks, and citrusy nightmares, it all fell into meaning. A dog’s life in Pawsburg was far from dull, it was a roaring symphony of love, loyalty, and, yes, a bit of lunacy.

In the end, the politics, the power…it was merely a preamble to the real treat: the wagging tale of a life lived with love, laughter, and an old tennis ball.

The End.