Hey confidante,

Just played peacekeeper at the dog park’s ‘Game of Bones.’ Touted unity over thrones and now the crew is swapping war tales for wagging tails at the Canine Cafe! Pawsburg politics is a walk in the park with a bit of wit and a lot of heart. 🐾

Tail wags,
Sadie Joon

Listen to the story here

Ah, there’s a tang in the air that only those of us with four paws and a proclivity for adventure can truly appreciate. The scent? Oh, it’s that of intrigue and hearsay, mingling just above the cobblestones of Pawsburg. Sadie Joon is the name – though you, dear confidant, can call me Sadie.

Now, as dawn spread its rosy fingers over Pawsburgh, we, the four-legged inhabitants, whispered of an epic power struggle that had taken root in our very dog park. The throne—the very symbol of canine leadership—was up for contention, and it was about as sturdy as a house of cards in the path of a panting bulldog.

On a breeze that carried the yeasty promise of Beagle Bagels, I trotted toward the heart of it all, Diamond Doberman Dunes. My trot was practiced, dapper if I say so myself, as befitting a Boston Terrier of my standing. Beside me, jolly Max loomed, his golden coat a banner of loyalty, while Mrs. Whiskers, effectively incognito as one of our ilk, pranced with feline grace she could hardly disguise.

Briard Bridge marked the boundary we had to cross into the thick of this Game of Bones, and as we stepped onto it, I couldn’t help but think about the biscuit buffet I’d miss at Canine’s Cuisine this evening. Adventure called, but oh, how I adored those canine confections.

The throne in question, a majestic thing wrought of sticks and chew toys, sat upon Ruby Rottweiler Ridge – quite the sight for eyes more accustomed to simple playthings. The mutters of the gathered masses filled the air, a mishmash of grievances and hopes. For in Pawsburg, it mattered not whether your collar was silken or flea-bitten; it was the heart beneath the fur that counted.

“Don’t you think it’s rather ominous today?” Max growled, his snout scenting the air. Mrs. Whiskers merely purred – which, given her undercover status as a caninophile, was rather shocking. I offered them both a dry smile. “And they say curiosity is suited only for cats,” I quipped. A gal has to maintain her wit among such company.

A slight tilt of my head, and the crowd parted. It was time. I, Sadie Joon, would not watch from the sidelines. After all, every knight has their day, and mine was upon me.

With a grace that would make lesser pooches blush, I addressed the throng. “Companions of fur and frolic,” I began, my button eyes agleam, “shall we really skirmish over a symbol when harmony has served us so well? Why, the idea is nuttier than a squirrel’s winter cache.”

A murmur ran through the ranks—a wave of glistening coats and flapping ears.

“And let’s not forget,” I added, “that our humans think us asleep or at play, not embroiled in a struggle to rival their most far-fetched soap operas.”

The crowd’s attention was a biscuit I could balance on my nose. “To joust for the throne is a frolic that will end in bath time for us all.” A collective shiver at the thought rippled through the pack. “Why not dine instead, share stories of valiance over a dish at The Canine Cafe or indulge in a treat from The Pampered Pooch Salon?”

Max’s tail began to wag, a pendulum of peace. Mrs. Whiskers smiled in her peculiar way, and soon the crowd was a sea of nods and yips. The game had ended before it truly began, for the heart of Pawsburg—my home—beat not with a lust for dominance but with the pure, unadulterated love of companionship.

And isn’t that the tail – excuse me, tale – of it all? For politics and power plays last but a moment, yet a wagging tail and an open paw, those…those are forever.

The End.