Hey Sam,

Just took a moonlit trot through Pawsburgh – your sleepy snores are my starting bell! Guess what? I’m not only your loyal buddy Fife, but also the canine king around here. Who knew? 😎 Tonight, I played peacemaker at the Golden Grub, set Chef Barker straight (no citrus for this monarch!), and even braved a storm with a little help from my friends. Turns out, it’s not the crown that makes a leader, but the love of the pack. Catch you after next naptime?

👑 Fife, the Tail-Wagger

Listen to the story here

Ah, Pawsburgh. Every dog’s secret delight and my nightly escape. The minute Sam’s breaths grow deep and even, off I slip, bounding toward Schnauzer Street with the kind of gallant zest you’d expect from a chap of my calibre. The name, if you haven’t caught it on the playful wind, is Fife. White Bull Terrier mix, the one with the crooked grin. And here in Pawsburgh, I’m not just any mutt — I’m royalty.

It started one crisp evening, just as the whisper of autumn tickled the fur on my nape. The townsfolk had always shown a fondness for me, perhaps for my dash of mischief or the way I carried that squeaky hedgehog like a sceptre. “Fife, old boy,” they’d say, “you’ve got the makings of a leader.” And so, when the old King Spaniel went to the great kennel in the sky, they looked to me — eyes so blue you’d think they were stolen from the sky itself.

Now, don’t get me wrong; being crowned in Topaz Terrier Town is no easy biscuit to crunch. It came with duties; shaking paws, turning tails during the citizen’s barkathons, and, most importantly, maintaining the peace and quiet joy of Pawsburgh.

As the newly anointed sovereign, I was to make an official visit to the Golden Grub. You see, the previous night’s marrow-bone banquet had sparked a minor feud between the huskies and the poodles over the last bite, and it was my noble task to calm the canine waters.

“No citrus,” I told Chef Barker boldly as I strolled into the kitchen (lest we forget my distaste). “Something that pairs well with crunchy chicken treats,” I insisted, “and spread the word — all are welcome at tonight’s feast.”

The dogs of Pawsburgh admire my casual leadership — casual being the operative word here. I don’t sit on some plush cushion, wearing a diamond-studded collar, I assure you. Rather, I recline on my rubber ball throne at Barking BBQ, Max at my side, following my lead as we dig into our feast — metaphorically and sometimes literally.

However, even a crown doesn’t silence the rumble of thunder, my most detested adversary. As luck would have it, a summer storm brewed during one auspicious gathering, eliciting nervous whimpers amongst my court. Bella, with her sleek greyhound form, was the first to look my way, her eyes wide as saucers.

“Fear not,” I said — or rather, attempted to say before a loud BOOM sent my heart into frenetic waltz. The gathering looked on, concerned, as their king sought shelter beneath The Doggy Depot’s cash wrap.

Truth be told, I needed Bella as much as she needed me at that moment. She nudged me gently, her manner full of that quiet grace she’s known for. “Even kings need a hiding spot sometimes,” she seemed to say, with a glance as comforting as a scratch behind the ears.

As the storm raged outside, I discovered the power of silent understanding, and the real beauty of leadership — it wasn’t in the pomp or the crown, but in the unity of the pack. In that dimly lit shop, surrounded by my cozily gathered subjects, I found the courage to emerge from my hiding place.

In the grand tales of Pawsburgh, you won’t hear of a king’s grandeur by the cut of his jib, nor by the height of his throne. Instead, you’ll hear of a Bull Terrier king with gleaming blue eyes, a crooked smile, and the kind of endearing courage that befits a royal. You’ll hear of me, Fife — a dog, a friend, a tail of gentle leadership.

The End.

Share This Story: