Hey Ellie,

Just wrapped up a little midnight diplomacy to keep Pawsburgh’s peace. Think shepherd by day, Petfather by night. All’s well on our turf post a chat with Coleman. Streets are safe, your loyal Grizz is en route home for cuddle duties by the fire. 🐾✨

– Grizzly (The Petfather)

Listen to the story here

In the enchanting town of Pawsburgh, I, Grizzly, a sable German Shepherd with a spirit as lush as my coat, found my own brand of justice. My days on Earth, marked by the endearing presence of my dear Ellie, were but a prelude to the moonlit escapades I ventured upon. A noble creature by day, a cunning protector by night. By the hearth, I was her Grizzly; in the shadows of Lhasa Lane, I was Don Grizzly, the hushed whisper in the alleys of Pawsburg.

My confidantes, the relentless Baxter and the coy Luna, were my eyes and ears amidst the labyrinth of terrestrial dealings. It was a balmy night when we convened at Harrier Harbor, a breeze caressing the burly nape of my neck as I peered out at the calm, moonlit waters. We had heard murmurings at The Wagging Tail Bookstore, whispers of clandestine ‘cat’-astrophe brewing.

With a steak as tender as my loyalty from Shepherd’s Shawarma in tow, I summoned my council. Baxter, with the breath of last night’s Terrier Tacos still lingering about him, tweaked his nose appreciatively. Luna slinked in, feigning indifference, her feline grace a stark contrast to the robust doggy decor. “We have rumbles of trouble,” I growled, fur bristling with the thought of disarray among my ranks.

“Informants suggest a kitty coup,” I continued, watching Baxter’s jowls quiver with the gravity of the affair. “Coleman, the Calico from across the city bounds, flaunts a scandalous romp at Setter Shore. A threat to our sovereignty.”

Baxter’s stentorian bark belied his bulk. “And you propose, Don Grizzly?”

“My dear associates,” I started, pausing for effect, “we will not be treated as flea-bitten curmudgeons. We resolve this with the wisdom of the aged, the deftness of the prowler.” Luna’s tail flicked with an air of agreement.

With the deliberation of a council in the shadows of our empire, we crafted a ploy as hushed as the whisk on a cat’s cheek. A playfit for the Petfather himself. I sought out Coleman at the very shores he claimed his throne, the waves of Setter Shore lapping in conspiratorial whispers.

“Coleman,” I began, the suavity of my demeanor as disarming as the shine of my coat, “this town purrs a tune of dogged harmony. Your whisperings are as sour to me as a lemon meringue –” I spat in repulsion, heedless of my typical composure — “- and that’s a dish I do not partake.”

Coleman’s gaze wavered, his nine lives seemingly flashing before those golden eyes. “What is it you want, Grizzly?”

“Peace,” I said, as much to him as to the sea, “and a partnership, with paws stretched across our boroughs, without the claw of discord shearing the fabric of our tranquil world.”

It was done. Pax Pawsburg, sealed with a nod, and the subtle bow of a calico head. Returning from the brink of an all-out claw-ouflage, I ambled back, Baxter on my flank, Luna shadowing our tails. The tail (or tale) complete, I reclaimed my spot at Ellie’s feet, the fireplace flickering memories and mischief reflected in my piercing brown eyes.

A long-haired sable German Shepherd by dawn, a mob boss reigning the twilight streets by dusk, ever bathed in the golden light of both Ellie’s adoration and Pawsburgh’s moonlit respect. Yes, in the tranquil cove of suburban lives and secret night-time sojourns, I am Grizzly, the Petfather of Pawsburgh.

The End.