Hey Mom & Dad,

Just wanted to tell you that today in Pawsburgh, I negotiated a high-stakes deal under Briard Bridge, kept the deli drama under wraps, and snoot booped a peace treaty with Millie. You raised a true diplomat who also happens to run the show. Keeping the peace and the treats evenly distributed – just a day in the life of your savvy Bella baby girl. 😉

Wags & Whisker Kisses,
Bella Baby Girl

Listen to the story here

Ah, friends, gather ‘round, for I, Bella—the Beagle with more finesse than Fred Astaire’s top hat—shall regale you with a tail from Pawsburgh. Tis I, Aunt Bella of the pocket-size but grandeur notorious throughout this doggy dominion.

It was an evening that fell gently upon the fabled Mastiff Meadows when my paws padded along, doing that delightful thing they do when adventures are afoot. I had sniffed out word of a clandestine meeting at Chowhound’s Chophouse—a lofty joint for a furry face like mine. And our mafioso musings? Well, a pet’s gotta do what a pet’s gotta do.

I wagged myself into an alcove, and awaiting me was Mya—my confidante, my niece, the pit bull with more smarts than a squirrel in nut season. “Aunt Bella,” she whispered, her voice slick as a wet tennis ball, “we got trouble brewin’ at the Doggone Deli. Millie’s making a mess of the Meatloaf Mondays.”

I snorted. Millie, that Great Pyrenees powderpuff, always strutted with more pomp than Poodle’s Pasta on a Friday night. But family business is family business.

We made for the Deli, our shadows long and our intent as steely as the clasp on a leash. A pupperazzi swarm was there, cameras flashing like lightning before the thunder—the kind that makes me scuttle beneath the bedspread. “Silence, you mongrels!” I barked, feeling more Vito than vivacious. “This is a family affair.”

Millie, grand as Doga Lisa and twice as enigmatic, looked down from Briard Bridge. “Bella,” she drawled, her voice as smooth as peanut butter, “you think you have what it takes to rule Pawsburgh?”

I let the silence hang like a chew toy just out of reach. “I don’t want to rule, Millie,” I confided, “just to ensure the scales are tipped in our favor. Now, about those meatloaf margins…”

We parleyed beneath the bridge, casting conniving glances and murmurs that would make the kibble in your bowl quiver. We struck a deal, not with a handshake, but with a nose boop—the truest of doggo pacts.

As we parted ways, Mya wagged a cautionary tale. “You play this game like a hound with a hidden bone, Aunt Bella,” she said, as we trotted toward Canine Couture for a victory snood. “But remember, Pawsburgh’s a jungle, and you’re throwing a dog a bone from the top of Malamute Mountain.”

I curled a smirk over my canine. That night, nestled against my memory foam throne, I dreamed of the roar of oceanic symphonies, knowing full well that my hooman counterparts thought all I did was chase squirrels and snore.

Pawsburgh danced along my dreamscape. It was a world where I balanced the scales of chew toys and child’s play, where respect came in belly rubs and loyalty came in treats. And through it all, I remained the most fluffy, splotched Beagle puppet master, convinced that not all whispers are for the humans.

So, dear folks of flesh and bone, if you hear a tale of a Beagle’s bravado among the Mastiffs and Malamutes, it’s just Pawsburgh’s open secret—a pet’s life that weaves through fables and fairytales of a kingdom where the hounds hold court, and Aunt Bella keeps the ledger.

But let’s keep that between you, me, and the fire hydrant, shall we? For in Pawsburgh, the stories are ours and ours alone. And I, Bella, pocket-sized yet larger than life, am the teller of tales most… canine.

The End.

Share This Story: