Hey there, just wanted to paws a moment and tell you about my epic day. Tried to fetch glory at the Frenzy, got outshone by Duchess’s interception, but learned victory isn’t just about the catch. Tail’s still up though, because every dog has his day and mine is coming. Tug-of-war next week – this mastiff’s not giving up. Keep wagging! 🐾

– Atlas(let)

Listen to the story here

Ah, another ordinary day in Pawsburgh — which is to say, as ordinary as a day can be when you’re a two-hundred-pound English Mastiff with the gravitational pull of a particularly charming planet. I’ve always fancied myself as somewhat of a local sports legend, not to sound too self-aggrandizing. Hence, it’s no surprise that my routine tidy trot out of my human’s domain was, in fact, a stealthy excursion to an athletic spectacle at Vizsla Valley.

But first, I must attend to the necessary fueling at Wagging Whisk, indulging in a breakfast that was notably lacking in chicken, an unpleasant divergence from my preferred taste sensation. Still, a dog must adapt.

“Atlas,” Baxter, the spritely Beagle, called to me. He was practically vibrating with enthusiasm. His staccato bark punctuated the morning air as he darted between my lumbering paws. “Today’s the day, buddy! Bloodhound Bluffs. The Great Pawsburgh Fetch Frenzy!”

I felt a thud in my chest — though that might’ve just been the echo of my last bark. The Fetch Frenzy was not a mere game. It was the Olympiad of our small doggy world, where one’s fetching skills were put to the ultimate test. A showcase of speed, finesse, and the art of drool management.

As the sun stretched lazily into the afternoon sky, I paraded to the bluffs, tail high, my mind on the gleaming trophy — a chew toy of epic proportions — that I’d eyed in the Wagging Tail Bookstore window on numerous occasions.

Nemesis alert: Duchess the Dalmatian, with her spots that could have been drawn by a toddler with a passion for asymmetry, was there. She had the aerodynamics of a canine missile and a victorious record as spotty yet impressive as her coat.

The whistle sounded, and so began the flurry of fur. Sand flew, and slobbery toys soared across the bright blue sky. Noses perked and tails tensed. Mine the most, naturally.

My turn. A hush fell upon the fellow canines as I took position at the starting line. The rugged rubber ball — my trusty companion in countless games of fetch — launched into the air. My muscles unleashed their coiled power. I shot forward like a mastiff out of hades, barreling down the field on what seemed to be paws of mercury. The ball arced gracefully down; all that stood between me and legendary status was the integrity of my catch.

The crowd gasped; squinty Beagle eyes watched with bated breath. But alas, the story of Icarus comes to one’s mind too plainly. For as I launched into my final heroic leap, Duchess appeared out of nowhere, intercepting— with infuriating grace — the rubber prize that should’ve been mine. She trotted back, head high, tail painting ostentatious loops in triumph.

Yet, as I lumbered back — the cheers for Duchess a distant annoyance — Baxter met me with a wag that suggested joy rather than pity.

“It’s not about the fetch, Atlas,” Baxter consoled. “It’s about the perseverance of fetching. Plus, there’s still the Tug-Of-War tournament next week!”

Back home, my betrayal of trust complete, I reported to my humans of the day’s misadventures with silent, sighing eyes. Consoled by affectionate pets and the lack of any need for verbal embroidery, I realized Pawsburgh was merely a footnote in the grand chapters of an English Mastiff’s life.

Yet, I must concede: every looming shadow at the park shall be pierced with the sensation of near-victory, waiting for the next spontaneous jaunt to Vizsla Valley. After all, in the quaint weave of Pawsburgh’s tales, I, Atlas, remain the undoubted protagonist — the dog with the tail worth wagging.

The End.

Share This Story: