Hey Sam,

It’s Coco here (a.k.a. Pawsburgh’s peacemaker). Quick update: I’m nominated to mediate the power plays in our furry kingdom as we sniff out a new ruler. Picture this – a grand Game of Fetch to pick the top dog. My paws are poised, and my tail’s twitching for the challenge. Wish me luck!

Wags and woofs,
Coco 🐾👑

Listen to the story here

‘Twas a morning like any other in the hallowed hamlet of Pawsburgh, where I, Coco, a black-coated scion of Labrador lineage, found myself awakened not by the gentle hand of my beloved Sam, but by the raucous ballyhoo outside my window. Having gleaned much wisdom and whispers of wit from my human’s readings, I fancied myself a creature of some reckon, and today, the fates had carved a day most peculiar upon Pawsburgh’s annals.

Harrier Harbor echoed with barkings of dissent – rumors of unrest circled like hawks in the sky – and the scent of revolution wafted among the whispers of the willow trees. A throne was at stake, for the venerable Spaniel sovereign had gone to the eternal kennels in the sky. It was an age where every tail held a tale and each bark bore a battle cry.

A dog’s life is not all chasing one’s tail and the bliss of belly rubs. Not in Pawsburgh, not today. Perplexities abounded at Pointer Pier, where seafaring hounds inhaled the briny air with unease. Pinscher Plaza thrummed with strategists and scheming; the usual playful pitter-patter of paws gave way to a stoic march.

As for my good self, my reflective morning routine at Canine Cafe was dashed for the council of quadrupeds had summoned me. Having a knack for mediating cheeky spats over tossed tennis balls – and those loathsome thunderstorms aside – I was known for an unshakable spirit. My friends, the boisterous Boxer, Max, and gentle Beagle, Daisy, flanked me as I trotted towards our fateful gathering at Puppy Patisserie.

“Indeed, fair day,” greeted I, salted with a bite of jest as we neared our destination. The scent of savory treats perforated the suspense. “Though perhaps a storm brews on the horizon, not of clouds and claps, but of claims and crowns.”

Daisy’s snout twitched in agreement, “I’d follow thy lead through murkiest mystery, Coco.” Her loyalty, as sweet as the sticky buns from Barking Brunch.

As we passed The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium, an overt nod to detente with feline foes of yore, I reflected on how Pawsburgh’s soil had seen both concord and contention.

“Know thy friends, decipher thy foes,” Max barked, swaying me from my musings.

Within Puppy Patisserie, hushed voices simmered to a growl as I, the picture of Labrador loyalty, entered. Nods of respect orbited me, and I took to the podium. “Dogs of Pawsburgh,” I began, hazel eyes meeting those of my breeds and beyond. “We stand upon a precipice, overlooking squabbles and antagonism. We share a bond, a leash unbound, and so we must choose a leader not from fear, but from fraternity.”

My words, though not of Sam’s delighted tutelage and Thurber’s flair, bore into the very heart of every hound present. I proposed a championship, The Grand Game of Fetch, where the noblest and mightiest would compete, their trials reflecting both strength and spirit.

“It shall be a chase under the honest sun, devoid of the foul tang of lemons, and ‘pon victory, the pluche banner shall rise!” My squeaky squirrel lay upon my podium, a symbol that grounded my soul in the resolve known to those who frolic in open fields.

The concourse erupted into a cacophony of anticipatory howls. Our democracy was a simple one, our choices guided by the primal purity present in a game of catch, and Pawsburgh would see harmony once again, portents of thunder be damned.

As the dogs dispersed, Max, Daisy, and I retired to my shaded backyard, the realm’s consternations momentarily forgotten as we assumed our leisure, the old oak tree our witness. My tail wagged, for today I had swayed the heart of our small world. Tomorrow’s sun would bring the Grand Game of Fetch – the critter chases and the carousel of canine capers would decide our fated leader, and I, Coco, would stand ready, come what may.

No canine knew what the morrow would herald, but one truth remained as steadfast as my gleaming coat: in the Game of Pet Thrones, you fetch or you yawn.

The End.