Hey fam, it’s me, Lady the Drama Queen of Dachshund Dale. Managed to turn what started off as another chew toy tiff into a sunset summit of unity on Ruby Rottweiler Ridge. Brought our motley crew of fur and whiskers together, proving once and again that we’re all about the squabbles and snuggles. Stories spun, stick victories, and family, not by blood but by bonds—we’re writing our legend, one bark at a time. Stay pawsome! 🐾 – Lady

Listen to the story here

Right, so there I am, perked ears and all, the pattern of my coat blending into the twilight of Dachshund Dale. I’ve got that daring look in my one black eye that says I’m about to stir up some plot in this prosaic panorama called Pawsburg, or at least that’s what Buster tells me. You know Buster, the bulldog who’s seen more summers in Pawsburg than the postmaster has seen letters. And let’s not get started on The Wanderer, enigmatic like a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, and then wrapped in a tweed jacket. He’d tell me the same, Lady, you’re drama, rolled up in a Merle coat.

The thing is, I’m a bit of a rascal—comes with the territory of being Lady. And today’s adventure? It’s set to the beat of family drama, tugging at the leash of what’s considered ordinary in this place where the ordinary took a detour at the first whiff of a bone buried eons ago.

We’re halfway up Malamute Mountain, the crew and I, my motley crew if we’re getting into specifics. Whiskers, that tabby, eyes wide with the excitement of trespassing on doggish affairs, had convinced us that Ruby Rottweiler Ridge was the spot for the sunset soiree we were putting together—“A gathering,” he called it, “of epic, legendary proportions.” Did I mention I don’t have much for cat gatherings?

But there’s a hitch, as there always is with family. See, it’s not your run-of-the-mill ‘let’s toss the ball and forget our troubles’ sort of day. No, the air’s thick with tension, cloudier than my stormy coat. By the stumps of the Great Oak, there’s the squabble, full-blown and barking.

“Calm down,” I interject, but it’s a scream over a tornado, completely useless. The family’s tearing at each other, kin on kin, like they’ve forgotten that bloodline or not, we’re all strays under the skin. Problem? A good old inheritance dispute—over a chew toy collection, can you believe it?

“Enough!” I bark with the kind of authority that silences even The Wanderer, “This isn’t what family is about.” The feud fizzles, and for a second I ponder if I should’ve pursued a career in canine law instead of chasing every thrill the wind tosses my way. Aided by the setting sun, which pours gold over us all like a grand reconciler, we sit. Together.

Conversations rev up again, the kind that weaves through politics and weather, through who snatched the biggest stick at Fetch! Toys and Treats, but it always comes back to family—how Whiskers defies feline convention, and how I, Lady, despite my rascality, have rooted myself as the heartstring tugger of this hodgepodge clan.

And as Whiskers raises a toast with a saucer of milk by the crackling fire, my gaze lingers on that mosaic sky mirroring me, and I find myself musing, Maybe it’s not about the destination, like the peak of this mountain, but the squabble and the reconciliation, the chase and the catch—that’s what makes this whole journey a story worth retelling at Barking Brunch.

“And they call ME the storyteller,” Buster growls with an air of mock resentment, a toast to family that’s not defined by blood, but by the countless shared tales at the twilight of Malamute Mountain.

As for The Wanderer, in his absence, he taught me this: No matter your lineage or the shade of your merle, what matters is you make your mark, leave a legacy even if it’s trouble, because what’s family without a little drama to spice the kibble?

The End.