Hey you,

Just a quick update from Pawsburgh—your queen, Roxy, has been out and about managing the realm. Conferred with the council, dodged paparazzi at the boutique, and dispensed wisdom at the daycare. Even the local feline approves of my day’s itinerary (he recommended a cheese scone, no less!). Holding court has been exhausting, but as they say, heavy is the head that wears the crown. I’ll tell you all about it when I rule over the couch tonight.

Royal regards,
Roxy 🐾👑

Listen to the story here

One might say that every dog has its day, but in Pawsburgh, every day was mine—a regal tapestry woven by paws and wet noses. I, Roxy of the noble bulldog lineage, awoke to the delicate chirrup of birdsong intermingled with the savory scents wafting from Barking BBQ, the day promising a banquet for both the belly and the soul.

The morning sun graced the cobblestones of Pinscher Plaza, which buzzed with the patter of paws and the good-natured bartering of hounds. I strode through the heart of Pawsburgh, commands and queries volleying through the air—after all, a queen must oversee her domain.

“Your Highness,” a tiny pug named Bertie bowed as I passed. “The Snooty Snout Boutique awaits your esteemed visit.”

I snorted with dignity, “Divert the crowd, Sir Bertie. We shan’t create a spectacle.” A queen, though crowned, must always be the emblem of discretion—and besides, one could not drool over the latest collar designs with grace under the scrutiny of the masses.

At The Doggie Daycare, I paused to enrapture the young pups with tales of my escapades. “As a pup of privilege, I assure you, no treasure is greater than the frolic of freedom in Vizsla Valley,” I proclaimed, before romping about to demonstrate technique.

Thereafter, I ventured to my counsel at Quartz Qimmiq Quarter where Spark the terrier and Luna the Labrador awaited. “Milady,” Spark greeted me with a bow so low his whiskers brushed the ground.

“Lord Spark, Lady Luna,” I nodded. “Report.”

Whiskers the cat, ever the enigmatic presence, perched atop the mailbox, his tail swishing like a conductor’s baton. “Might I suggest a visit to Paw-tisserie for a cheese scone, Miss Roxy? Fortify the spirit for the day’s endeavors.”

Ah, the cheese scone—victual fit for sovereign satisfaction.

Upon returning to my chambers, as night dappled the streets, the faint echo of my subjects’ departed paws summoned a solemn reflection. The Crown of Pawsburgh, it seemed, was not a jewel-studded diadem, but the shared spark of joy and obedience.

And so, my tale unwound amidst the slumbering town, where dogs dreamed of squeaky thrones and cheese-laden banquets, and I, your Queen Roxy, retired with the whispered promise of another day’s reign. With a satisfied sigh, I nestled into the royal bedding—a fitting end to a day captured in the heart’s kingdom.

For in Pawsburgh, every tail wag is a tale in itself, and every woof, a decree of delight.

The End.