Hey human,

Just aced the Pawsburgh Fetch-a-Thon! Jumped hurdles like a ninja, dodged a rogue Brussels sprout, and took home the golden stick! 😎🥇 More stories and tail wags later, but for now, just basking in doggy glory and dreaming of those Terrier Tacos. Medal’s got nothing on those bad boys! 🌮🐕‍🦺

Catch you on the flipside,

Shelby the Fetch Queen 👑🐾

Listen to the story here

And so, there I was on Sapphire Schnauzer Street – my paws a jittery tap dance on the cobblestones, pumping myself up for the day every dog in Pawsburgh had been barking about. Skittles, with his never-ending squawking-advisor routine, told me it’s a big deal, Shelby, you gotta focus, ruffle some feathers! He doesn’t know I’ve got a game plan under my collar.

The Pawsburgh Annual Fetch-a-Thon was no ordinary game. It was the Woof Series of dog sports, and I was basically the Michael Jordan of fetch – if Michael Jordan were a sandy tan bully with an ear-to-ear grin and a deep, unyielding love for grilled chicken. Speaking of, Terrier Tacos had a stall right next to the venue with their grilled chicken topped tiny tacos. My tail twitched just thinking about it. But no, focus!

As I strolled past The Canine Cafe, steam puffing out like it’s trying to invite me in with Morse code, I resisted. “Just a quick puppuccino, Shelb?” the barista barked. Not today, Joe, got the dino to defend and a title to claim.

Finally, greeting me with the vastness of an ocean and the green of an emerald was Mastiff Meadows. It was rammed. Dogs of every size, from teeny terriers to the gentle giants, the Great Danes, milled about, each with competitive fire in their eyes, or maybe that was just the reflection of the “Go Fetch” banner.

We were called to the starting line, an eccentric mix of fur and anticipation. I locked eyes with my squeaky companion, the dinosaur. They say don’t bring your toy to a sports thing – it’s distracting – but it’s my charm, my fuzzy green rabbit’s foot. The Zen, remember?

The whistle blew, and it was like someone hit the zoomies button. I darted, ears back, eyes narrow, dodging a particularly enthusiastic poodle with a pom-pom tail. My strategy? Simple. Fetch, return, repeat. Fetch, return, eat a celebratory chicken taco – wait, no! Focus!

I was a brown streak, the envy of greyhounds, the Usain Bolt of bullies. I’ve got reflexes that would have those Mastiff Meadows squirrels surrendering their nuts. The crowd cheered; Skittles screeched, “Shelby! You’re the dog’s bark!” or something equally loud and supportive.

Halfway through, as I returned with my third stick – because obviously we’ve upgraded from primitive tennis balls – I spotted Whiskers, perched coolly on a spectator’s shoulder, nodding with what I assume was cat-like approval or indifference, hard to tell. Then, gasp! The dreaded Brussels sprout rolled into the field, rogue and unapologetic.

Dogs yelped, recoiled, lost their fetching minds. Not me. The key to success? Brussels sprout aversion therapy – grilled chicken incentive training. I sidestepped the sprout and made the pivotal catch of my career.

As the final whistle blew, it was clear – I sat atop the leaderboard. They say every dog has its day, but this day, with the sapphire sky over me and the Meadows under my paws, belonged to this sandy tan champ.

The awards ceremony was a blur. I know there were speeches, a medal that tasted vaguely of victory (and maybe a little like pocket lint), and lots of pats on the back that did wonders for my ego.

In the end, there I was in the shadow, my dinosaur by my side, the cool grass a welcoming contrast to the heated competition. The day’s tales would be epic – the daring dashes, the snack stand that ran out of Terrier Tacos (a travesty!), and of course, yours truly’s unstoppable fetch.

As Pawsburgh faded away and I crossed over into the human world, nestled back under my old fig tree, the whispers of the wind seemed to chant, “Shelby, you’ve done it again.” And with my beloved toy tucked beneath my chin, you better believe I dreamed of grilled chicken, fame, and next year’s Fetch-a-Thon glory.

Goodnight, Pawsburgh, until we meet again in the secret hours of unsupervised paws.

The End.