Hey human! 🐾✨

Just conquered the Fetch Festival like a true Pitbull Queen! The legends of Pawsburg will now echo with my name (well, and Max’s bouts of heroic fibs). Chicken temptations were strong but my game was stronger. Let’s just say, if tails could tell stories… oh wait, they do!

Stay tuned for next year’s tales,
The Great and Powerful Olive 🐶👑

Listen to the story here

As the sun dipped behind the horizon, casting a golden hue over Pawsburg, I, Olive, trotted through the twisting lanes with a sense of purpose. Most dogs might have settled for a cozy nook by the hearth at twilight, but not me. My heart itched for adventure, and my paws were restless.

I made my way towards Terrier Town, the cobblestoned district known for its lively atmosphere and, more importantly tonight, the annual Fetch Festival. The air was thick with the scent of baked chicken from Shepherd’s Shawarma, sending my tail into involuntary spasms of joy. I bypassed the temptation; the festival beckoned with a promise of glory. Who needs chicken when there’s the prospect of a victory feast?

Arriving at Mastiff Meadows, the epic grandeur of the Festival illuminated under the silvery gaze of the moon took my breath away. Every dog from every corner of Pawsburg was there. Flags with emblems of bones and balls fluttered in the wind, while a symphony of barks and howls resonated with excitement. Yet among the furry faces, there was one in particular I was searching for – Max, with his glossy golden coat, always ready for a bout of tug-of-war.

“Olive!” called Max as I approached, his tail wagging like a conductor’s baton in a canine orchestra. “Are you ready to make history?”

“Max,” I replied with a smirk, “I was ready before I was born.” Dogs don’t really believe in hyperbole. It’s just that some of us are born with a flair for the dramatic.

The first event was the High Jump, a competition that would’ve made my fellow pit bulls proud. Max and I watched from the sidelines, our heads tilted back, eyes tracking the competitors. We cheered as Luna elegantly cleared the bar, her Maine Coon whiskers twitching with satisfaction.

But it was the event that followed – the legendary Gauntlet of Games – that was the reason for my iciest stare and my torturous self-discipline, refraining from Shepherd’s aromatic temptations. I stepped into the circle, ball in mouth, surrounded by the cheers and japes of my fellow Pawsburgians.

The blue rubber ball that Emily so often threw for me, and that I had dutifully retrieved a hundred thousand times before, now served as my Excalibur. It was an emblem that transcended being a mere toy; it was the talisman of my resolve, the spheroid testimony of my bond with my human. A pit bull with a purpose, that was I.

As the whistle blew, my legs pumped like pistons, charging through a labyrinth of agility poles, hurdling over barriers taller than Max’s tales of valor, which, between us, might be slightly exaggerated. Bursts of speed led me through tunnels darker than a chew toy’s enigmatic soul, all the way to the triumphant leap through a hoop that brimmed with the temptation of dangling chicken treats. The honest scent of poultry threatened my composure, but citrus lurked in the shadows, lurking beyond like a sour sentry that spurred me on, for one must always play to one’s strengths—and avoid one’s detestations.

The crowd exploded into applause as I emerged victorious, Max bounding towards me, his salute as much an acknowledgment of our friendship as the triumph. Together we sauntered off towards Canine Cafe, the stars overhead casting a surreptitious twinkle akin to the glint in our eyes, for the festival may end, but the tales of this epic night would be barked about for generations.

And so it goes, in the grand tapestry of Pawsburg, where I, Olive, with a simple wag of my tail or twitch of my ear, find the world pivoting around my adventures, grand and ridiculously sublime.

The End.