Hey 👋🏼 Just wanted to give you a little update and a pawful of laughs. I’ve taken the leash at Pawsburgh’s Pet Wing, wheeling and dealing over frisbees and fighting for the Peanut Butter Proposition. It’s a ruff job, but somepawdy has to do it! 🐾 Politics here are fur more intense than I thought, but I’m boxing my way through it. 🥊 All in a day’s work for this Brindle bureaucrat. Catch you at the Doggie Diner for a debrief and a doggy bag! 🌭📜

Wags and wits,
Aja 🐶

Listen to the story here

In the heartbeat of Pawsburgh, under the watchful gaze of Diamond Doberman Dunes, brisk tails wagged the talk of politics. You might think, “A Boxer in the Beltway? Preposterous!” But oh, how underestimates could tickle my ribs better than Jamie’s behind-the-ear magic.

With the sun just a memory and the moon a whisper away, the air of Pawsburgh brimmed with anticipation. I, Aja, Brindle-furred and sturdy, trotted through Topaz Terrier Town with purpose in every padded step.

As a member of the Pet Wing, I had agendas – dog dishes to fill, tug-of-war treaties to negotiate, and, of course, frisbees to reforest. (You haven’t seen deforestation until you’ve seen a dog park minus frisbees.)

“Councilwoman Aja!” Buster barked as I passed The Canine Cafe, his voice tinged with urgency as much as it was with the scent of last night’s meatloaf. That beagle could sniff out a conspiracy and a dropped piece of steak from a mile away.

“Ease up, Buster,” I flicked my ear, the ball by my side as much a badge of office as it was my dearest companion. “We’ll get those digging permits sorted, double time. Triple time, if you get Willow’s speed on the task.”

Speaking of Willow, fur sleek like satin and a running mate in every sense, she skidded up, her grin doing little to hide the gravity of our rendezvous at Doggie Diner.

“Top Dog’s expecting a briefing on the Peanut Butter Proposition,” she panted, always one to sprint through formalities – her indoor voice was but a myth. “We’ve got a crunch to smooth out, a sticky situation.”

Canines and politics, an entanglement of honor and howls. We bounded toward our appointment, past Paw-lickin’ Pancakes with the smells tickling my dedication to duty over my stomach’s yearning.

“Constituents!” I began in Best in Show Photography, my audience a rainbow of collars and coats, “Pawsburgh is more than a magical recess; we are the keepers of doggie democracy, where every tail has a say.”

An old Schnauzer grunted, his whiskers a testament to too many council debates. “What’s now, Boxer? What new game do we chase?”

“The game of sustenance, my dear paws peers,” I said, teasing voices at work in my head – part strategist, part peanut butter enthusiast.

Buster piped in, his bark too loud for indoors, “There’s talk the cats are tabling their own ordinance. Something about regulating yarn imports.”

The room erupted into woofs of concern, fur bristling like hedgehogs on half-price day at The Barking Boutique.

Then, in the quiet corner of the diner, by the gloom just outside the neon “Open” sign – there sat the Top Dog himself, looking pensive, a pupper deep in thought.

I approached, demeanor collected, inner Boxer bouncing. “Sir, the Proposition?”

He paused, his cutlery a dance of decision. “Aja, we proceed with caution… but carry on. We can’t have the cats unravel our thread.”

Nods exchanged, we turned to address our canine congress. Buster was sniffing out the backroom dealings, Willow ready to race through the red tape. It was time to huddle, to plot, plan, and fetch victory from the jaws of defeat. The Pet Wing was no place for pawsies; we were the shepherds of society.

My blue ball of loyalty rolled loyally by my side as I led the march, ready to sink my teeth into legislation and throw my weight behind the bones of democracy.

Because in Pawsburgh, every dog has its day – and every night is just the beginning of another tail-wagging tale.

The End.