Hey there, just wrapping up another day in the ol’ dog-eat-dog world of corporate Pawsburgh—crunched numbers, munched on kibble politics, and philosophized about the great pea debate (who knew veggies could be so polarizing?). Can’t wait to share the tail-wagging tales over a BoneBrew later. Paws and reflect, that’s the motto here. Catch you after the sun sets on another canine caper. 🐾 – Odin the Guard Dog

Listen to the story here

So it goes, in Pawsburgh, where the bark of democracy hums beneath the twilight, and all the four-legged denizens scamper about, unshackled by the constraints of their daytime collars.

But me, I’m Odin. You know me. Big black and tan Rottweiler, heart as warm as the chicken roasting in the sun. During the mundane hours, I play guard to an empty castle, but in the hidden tick of the clock, where time stretches like yawn, I explore the cobbled streets of Pawsburgh, a comical metropolis, a haven snugly fitted between reality and dreamscape.

Each day—or night, if we’re getting technical—is a photocopy of the one before at Waggins Incorporated, slap-bang in the middle of Pawsburgh. The office is a laughter-laden bureaucracy of sniffing and paw-shaking, where sniffles and tail wags ink the deals.

“Odin!” Sue Barker, the office manager, squawks. She’s a Spaniel with enough spring in her step to launch a thousand ships. Or balls, for that matter. “Did you finish that report on the Snausages merger?”

I swivel in my swanky dog bed-turned-office chair, a squeaky rubber bone pinched between my jaws—my badge of office pizzazz. “Woof,” I reply, which is dog for, “In a minute.”

This place, I tell you, it’s a comedy sketch penned by the paws of fate. I glance at the camera—yes, there’s always a camera—eyebrows raised, channeling my inner Vonnegut. I imagine myself as the protagonist in a story where the main plot is the absurdity of it all. The absurdity of dogs running an office.

The camera pans; the hushed tick-tock of collars gives way to the clinking of BoneBrews at Paws Pub, the watering hole adjacent to Waggins Inc., where the air smells of ambition and freshly opened kibble. Today, it’s the peach schnapps bitterness of peas that sparks my monologue.

“So here’s the thing about peas,” I confess with a dramatic flair to any pooch within earshot, “They’re like tiny grenades of dissatisfaction.” A Beagle lifts his head, unbothered, then returns to sulk by his empty bowl.

Lunch hour is spent at Setter’s Steakhouse, where I host a series of impromptu meetings with the staff, regaling them with my weekend ventures—the rebel without a cause, traversing the treacherous climbs of Bloodhound Bluffs, chasing the ghosts of squirrels past.

“The trick,” I bark, “is to keep climbing, even when the cliff seems steep.” The Golden Retriever, he nods, wisdom lining the gray fur of his muzzle. He’s seen his fair share of bluffs.

As the day folds into evening, suits are shed, and leashes dangle from hooks. We collect our stories, tuck them like bones to savor later. I don my invisible glasses, philosophical.

“Life at Waggins,” I dictate in my head, in a voice I imagine suits Vonnegut’s tongue, “is a lesson in contradiction.” A world where a Rottweiler like me, who dreams of the wind’s caress, sits in an office, gulping the recycled air of camaraderie and contemplating the culinary sins of vegetables.

Closing time harkens, and I strut to Affenpinscher Avenue, the air filled with the soft, idle gossip of the town. Dusk grants me anonymity, just another shadow beneath the streetlamps. And Pawsburgh becomes a memory, a dream within a dream until the next sun sets.

Back in the domestic quiet, my owner asks, “How was your day, Odin?” I wag my tail, sew my adventures into the fabric of silent barks, and settle into my bed. Another story for another night, in the ineffable existence of a dog named Odin, the pride of Pawsburgh.

The End.