“Blanche here, dog-about-town in Pawsburg. Belly full of chicken from Beagle Beach party, outsmarted Piper the Boxer to get it. Ruled my little Western universe under the stars. No celery sighted, hallelujah! All in a night’s work for the Bulldog-in charge, signing off from a snoozy old oak. Woof out!”

Listen to the story here

In the quiet of midnight, with the moon shining in the crystalline sky, we dogs of Pawsburg had our tiny Western universe to ourselves. It was a night like any, particularly interesting for the Beagle Beach was aflame with festivities, ready for another thrilling adventure. So, I, Blanche – the English Bulldog, often found in a dazed stupor under the old oak tree, rose from my habitual lethargy, all set to delve into the heart of the excitement.

“Blanche,” Bailey barked, racing up to me. The Labrador was all wagging tail and excited eyes. “You won’t believe what’s happening at Beagle Beach! They’ve brought in a cartload of roasted chicken from Bow Wow Burgers!”

I blinked, my round eyes widening slightly. Now I wouldn’t say I’m one for exertions, but that chicken… that called for differences to be made, scores to be settled with lazy legs.

“Roasted chicken, you say?” I asked, my gruff voice low, a smile sneaking onto my wrinkled canine face.

“You bet, Blanche!” Bailey quipped, a tiny tongue lolling out of her mouth. “And guess what? Piper’s guarding it!”

Ah, no mystery would’ve been complete without Piper, the Boxer from two houses down. As sturdy as a cactus, yet as friendly as meadow grass, Piper was always good fun to spar words with.

My stubby tail gave a little wag, a satisfying chuckle escaping me. Chicken was not just food. Chicken was an art to be savored, an experience to relish.

So off we went, Piper, Bailey and I trotting towards Beagle Beach, basking in the glow of the lantern-lit pathways, the shadows of shop signs such as Pawsitively Purrfect Pet Store and The Pooch Playhouse dancing on the cobbled streets.

Once at the beach, a carnival brimmed with life under the velvety night. Amidst the clanging glasses from Paws-A-Latte and loud laughter near The Snooty Snout Boutique, there was chaos, fun, and whole lot of wagging tails. Piper stood near the pile, of course, bouncer-like, presumably to keep the hooligans away.

“Evenin’, Piper,” I greeted, my weathered rubber chicken clenched in my mouth.

“Blanche,” Piper nodded, tension lining his muscular frame, eyes locked on the edible treasure.

Now you’d expect a mad dash towards the chicken, a food fight or a squabble. But here in Pawsburg, every dog has its day, and blistering blizzards, this was mine.

Taking the chicken in my paws, I reclined under the stars, letting the frame of the grand old West morph into a theatrical tapestry as I savored the warm titbits. The world could go hang, for in my own little corner of Pawsburg, I was queen, and life was perfect.

And as for that vile green demon known by some as celery? Well, fortunately, it was nowhere in sight. After all, you know what they say: A Bulldog in a Western tale’s got to have at least one thing goin’ her way.

The End.