Yo Pack Leader, just played peacekeeper in the high-stakes game of thrones here in Pawsburgh. Prevented pure pandemonium, kept our pack intact, and made sure the Bone of Basenji remains a symbol of our shared tail-wagging spirit. No crown, but my crown jewel’s the unity we bark for. All’s well that ends with pals and tails, right? 🐾 – Bubs the Bone Broker

Listen to the story here

Ah, treachery and treats—the pillars of Pawsburgh, a kingdom where the clinking of collars signifies both allegiance and conspiracy. You know me, your loyal tail-wagger and bone-chaser supreme, Bubs. And as the twilight stars peep their nosy heads from the curtains of the sky, I’ll unravel the latest scandal from the kibble-strewn paths of power.

It was a day that began as any other in Garnet Greyhound Grove, with the mirth of mongrels and the bellowing barks of bulldogs echoing through every woof-topped dwelling. The sun bounced off the rippling waters of Blue Basenji Bay, making light-dapples dance on my glossy coat as I promenaded towards Tail-Twitching Treats, my stomach singing hymns for peanut butter.

As fate—with its funny bone well intact—would have it, the saloon was abuzz. Between bites of biscuit, the growl on the grapevine was about an unsanctioned shift in sovereignty. Luna, sweet Luna, her tail a flurry of unspoken words, leapt onto a table with the elegance reserved for a ballroom and spilled the kibble.

“The Bone of Basenji has vanished!” she howled, doing her namesake justice.

The Bone of Basenji, an emblem of choice cuts and chewed authority, was the regalia and right of every top-dog who sat atop the throne of Pawsburgh. Who would dare take it? And, more importantly, why wasn’t it me?

Max wagged his way to me, looking like someone had just canceled brunch. “The throne is up for grabs!” he whispered, his voice a strained string of hushed excitement.

So, here we were. Pawsburgh, caught in the jaws of a pet throne game, with the tails of highborn hounds and the whines of wannabe warlords wafting through the air.

With the stealth of a cat—I know, how uncanny—I stalked the shady lanes of our bejeweled town. The Blue Basenji Bay murmured secrets, as I tiptoed past Barker’s Bakery, whiffs of dog donuts doing nothing to fluster my focus.

The trail led me to The Pampered Pooch Salon, where the pitter-patter of political paws reached a climactic crescendo. Behind a curtain of steam and shampoo, I found them—the huddle of hounds—gnashing over the throne.

“Steal the bone, and the seat is yours,” snickered a Pointer, her point taken all too sharply by the assembly.

I plotted my strategy amid the whispers. My pedigree blend of Pitbull prowess and Labrador logic had never been more pumped for the ploy.

“What say you, Bubs?” a Rottweiler rumbled, his question a thrown gauntlet.

I huffed, a noble air about my thoughts. “Let’s not turn this grooming into a grudge.”

With words cutting the thick air like a squirrel disrupts a Sunday siesta, I bartered. A kingdom of bones, sure, but none more precious than the unity of our pack.

“You scheme for the throne,” I barked, “but forget the fest that unites us each night at Pooch’s Pizzeria.”

Muzzles dropped open like trapdoors, the bait of brotherhood dangling from my dexterous tongue.

“Why chase crowns when we can collar camaraderie?” The applause that erupted was not just for show. I had offered them a bone to pick—not with each other, but with feelings of disloyalty and greed.

And so, the Bone of Basenji was returned, not by an aspiring autocrat, but by recognizing it symbolized something beyond the grasp of solitary sovereignty. It was a reminder of the feast we all shared, beyond beets, beyond power—a feast of friendship.

Ah, sweet Pawsburgh, where even the underdog can turn the tide with a tale, and though I, Bubs the benevolent, may not sit on the throne, I’ve got something better—a spirited sprint under the sun, and a legion of loyal leg-lifters to sing my story.

The End.