Hey Mom,

Just wrapped up the night as MVP at Pawsburgh’s Volleyball Championships! Your ‘little Stinky Button’ turned into a true athlete, outplaying every tail-wagger in town under the moon’s watchful eye. Even managed to sneak in a post-game intellectual quip – “There’s a finesse to fetch,” I said! All tails and tales tonight, but I assure you, the earthy, rambunctious soul you raised remains intact. Moonlight out, paws tired, heart full.

Love,
Jaws

Listen to the story here

Beneath the dream-dappled sky of slumbering humans, whisking through the concealment of a moonlit gloss, I make my nocturnal journey—one that sees the transformation of the Earth-dwelling Jaws into the athlete of Pawsburgh renown.

At Affenpinscher Avenue, a hushed bark marks my entrance; the guardian statues nod as I pass, their stone eyes flickering with secrets. With the clandestine delight of a midnight marauder, I trot towards the clandestine canine conclave.

“Jaws, old boy, running under the cover of constellations again?” barks a gregarious voice—a hound with the stature of the Sphinx but the regard of an ingénue.

“Spectator sport, you know—all pomp and no circumstance,” I quip back, tail wagging an acknowledgement. The streets whispered my legend, of Old English Bulldog bulk storming through Pawsburgh’s sporting arenas, each escapade more daring than the last.

The destination? Doberman Dunes—the Sahara in miniature for the four-legged devotees. Here, the Volleyball Championships ever so discreetly unraveled, an homage to athletic prowess, social competence, and the allure of the win.

“Barking evening to you, Duchess,” I nod to the white Samoyed at the net’s reins, her coat like a cumulus cloud stuck close to Earth.

“Jaws! They say the game ‘s not afoot ’til you’ve stepped onto the sand,” she playfully growls, her blue eyes glinting.

With the air rife with the scent of sportsmanship and dew-laden grass, I lumber onto the court with the grace of an unencumbered galleon, muscles contracting in preparation—a mosaic of fur, vigor, and anticipatory joy. The crowds emerge as allusions in the bleachers, lucky characters in the vibrant chronicle of the night.

A golden retriever, my opponent of the hour, tosses the ball aloft, her fur the essence of summer sun—against my wintry surge, she poses a stark contrast. “Seems it’s carrot crunch time,” she quips, her snout pointing at my ready stance.

“Crunch indeed, but I’ve a penchant for pineapples,” I retort, the ball desiring my paws as the earth longs for rain—a rare moment where a small sphere eclipses the interest in a juicy morsel.

The game unfolds in earnest—the pop of the ball, the scampering of paws, the athleticism of dogs sculpturing moments to ephemeral triumph, whiskers to wind.

“Checkmate,” I bark after a spectacular rally, sending the spell-bound sphere beyond the line’s truth. “There’s a finesse to fetch—that rubber ball teaches well.”

Between the sandy fits, remnants of walks with “Mom,” the taste of the forbidden apple, and the lure of a sun-soaked park, the tale of Pawsburgh’s sports unfolds—each chapter a microcosm of canine dreams.

Yet the moon, ever the unimpressed critic, watches without applause. With a whistle chirp, signaling an end without fanfare, Duchess winks, “Jaws, till the next moon’s stage.”

Back on Affenpinscher Avenue, a whiff of Pom’s Pies wafts—entertainment for the belly’s applause—but no, tonight’s palette craves Mastiff’s Meals with modesty, or perhaps just a humble haunt, Pooch’s Pub, for a well-deserved caper closer.

I bow, though my curtains won’t close; no monologues here—just action and reaction, a telling without telling, underlining thoughts with a wag. No dog treats shall pass these lips; the ordinary is for less discerning sorts. And as Pawsburgh fades with the yawning dawn, I am Shepherd of my own narrative—explorer, player, and the playwright’s best muse. My paw-steps on Earth once again, ’tis a tale told by a bulldog, full of sound and furry delight, signifying the zest of life.

The End.