Hey there! 🐾 It’s Cliff the Swift! Just dashed to victory in the Pawsburgh Grand Relay with Remus & Bella. Outran some snobby Spaniels & claimed the podium top spot. Mr. T’s strategy was pawfect – we’re the talk of the town! Tail wags & treat dreams! 🏆🥇 #ChampCorgi 🐶✨

Listen to the story here

As dawn’s light sauntered through the slits of Mr. Thimble’s cozy cottage curtains, it found me, Clifford, the clever Corgi, already wide awake. Today wasn’t just another biscuit on the shelf; it was the day of the Pawsburgh Grand Relay at Samoyed Square, and my paws were practically prancing in place with anticipation.

“You’ll knock ’em dead, Cliff,” Mr. Thimble murmured, affectionately scratching me behind the ears with his papery hand, his spectacles reflecting the scribbled strategy plans I had outlined the night prior. Although pride would never allow me to admit it, I was more than just a touch nervous. The Relay wasn’t mere frivolous frolicking—it was a craft, an art, a sport of kings. And kingly, I intended to be.

Shar-Pei Shores blessed us with a unique training ground; the sand resistance perfected my sprints, while the rhythmic lapping of the waves calmed my initiation jitters. I often fancied looking quite the naval commander as I charged through the surf, Remus and Bella bounding alongside me, each of us sharpening our strengths for the race that now loomed before us.

Dodging the drooling Great Danes and the overcaffeinated Jack Russells, we strutted into Samoyed Square, the scent of victory sweeter than a whiff from Pawprint Pizzeria. The atmosphere was electric, or perhaps that was just static cling from Canine Couture Clothing’s latest range of athletic gear. I pushed the thought aside; today was about agility, not fashion.

As we, The Pack, took our place at the starting line, I spotted our rivals: a trio of smug, spruced-up Spaniels from Setter Shore. They had a pompous air about them, with ne’er a whiff of humility, and boy did that get my hackles up. The very thought of losing to them was like a lemon in my water bowl—unthinkable.

The gunshot echoed, a raucous bark to signal our charge, and my legs turned to powerful pistons, the mismatched socks forgotten. Remus, with the grace of an Olympic athlete, leapt over hurdles. Bella, who certainly knew a thing or two about perseverance, wove through the slalom poles as if dancing to some silent symphony only she could hear.

A crowd had gathered, a barking, cheering mass outside Sniffer’s Sandwiches, some with pancakes from Husky’s Hotcakes balancing atop their snouts as they watched us tear up the track. I could barely hear the announcer’s commentary for the cacophony of enthusiastic yips and yaps.

The final stretch was upon us, and I could taste the triumph like my much-loved chicken fillets. A deep breath, a powerful kick, and I surged ahead, whizzing past the Spaniels like the squeak of my rubber chicken echoed in my ears.

“Go on, Clifford!” I imagined Mr. Thimble cheering, his mild voice threading through the uproar.

The finish line ribbon snapped against my chest, and the square erupted. We had won! Remus, Bella, and I were dubbed the champions of the Pawsburgh Grand Relay, our tails wagging in a harmonious blur. The Spaniels could only watch with begrudging respect as we took our place atop the podium, the Pawsburgh Press crowding around, cameras flashing like a disco at The Furry Friends Art Gallery.

Later, as Green Meadows Park lapsed into the calm of dusk, I shared my adventure with Mr. Thimble, offering the rubber chicken’s jubilant squeaks as my proof of our merriment. “Quite the escapade, eh, old boy?” Mr. Thimble chuckled, and I, Clifford, basked in the glory of the tale, knowing full well that tomorrow, just as surely as the sun would rise over Pawsburgh, we’d be back at it, chasing ever greater glories.

The End.

Share This Story: