Hey Mom,

Just wrapped up my first ‘Find Your Bark’ seminar – think elegant pawshakes meet an unintended swim class! Now I’ve got more poise than a pageant-winning poodle and more courage than a chicken-flavored chew toy. Guess you could say I’m the fresh toast of Pawsburg! Will recount the tail-wagging tales soon.

Licks and wags,
Friday 🐾🐶

Listen to the story here

As I, Friday, the black and white connoisseur of Pawsburg’s finest poultry and the unsuspecting enemy of any water not lazily lapping at a lake’s edge, found myself on the cusp of a new adventure, I couldn’t help but reflect on the irony of life’s little quirks. My musings were interrupted by the rustle of my squeaky lobster—my treasured companion, always in tow like a red, rubbery shadow.

It was on the cobblestoned stretch of Papillon Promenade where my infamously bright blue eyes—often likened to blueberries dunked in a bowl of milk (if such a thing existed for dogs)—caught a glimpse of the future, and it wagged its tail at me. Yes, there I stood, at the convergence of anticipation and trepidation, ready to sprout from the pupdom into the esteemed role of a dog about town. The promenade was bustling, dogs of all breeds sniffing out the morning news with fervor only a fresh Pawsburg sunrise could ignite.

I took a saunter down to The Woofy Bakery, where the air was thick with the smells of fresh biscuits and the yeasty hug of rising dough. The canine clientele milled about, offering polite sniffs and tail wags in greeting. The eloquent Siamese from Main Street, who fancied himself a canine critic, was offering unsolicited reviews on the latest batch of bacon buns. I nodded to him, my thoughts awhirl.

As most young dogs are apt to be, I was on the perpetual quest for my place under the sun—or the most comfortable rug by the hearth, rather. Our village, you see, is not just about the ruff and tumble of doghood; it’s about finding the bone of your dreams, metaphorically speaking. And today, my dreams took me to Tail-Twitching Treats, the quintessential gathering spot for the epicureans of our furry society.

Being a dog of refined palate, yet curiously averted to the cult of peanut butter, I’ve often attracted a curious glance or two as I scrutinized the menu. “Anything but the peanut butter pâté, please,” I’d say, eliciting gasps of dramatic proportions from the servers. But today wasn’t about food—it was about the future. My future.

I endeavored to journey to the fabled The Pawfect Training Center, the very establishment where many a dog had bounded in with four left paws and pranced out as poised as a show poodle. I was met at the door by a Dalmatian with a gaze so stern, it could reorganize your internal organs through sheer will power. He was the gatekeeper to my coming of canine age.

“You’re here for the ‘Find Your Bark’ seminar, right?” he asked, his every spot standing at attention.

I nodded, a lump forming in my throat. Behind those doors, I would learn not just tricks and trades, but also unearth the marrow of my true self—a dog not defined by his dislike of baths but by the unique constellation of quirks that made up Friday.

With a deep breath that smelled faintly of chicken, I stepped into the hall, mingling with mutts and purebreds alike, each with their own journey. We were in this together. Each step, each sniff, every single frisky leap was a stitch in the tapestry of Pawsburg and, indeed, a galaxy of stories.

You might wonder how it all turned out. Well, let’s say my squeaky lobster and I emerged slightly soggier for the wear (there was an unexpected aquatic component to the curriculum), but awash with new-found esteem.

And so it is, dear friends, as the stars twinkle above Terrier Town and the wise old parrot settles onto his lunar perch, I, Friday, stand before you—squeaky toy in mouth, ready for whatever tomorrow might wag in my direction.

The End.