Hey Mom, just wrapped another epic chapter in Pawsburgh’s underbelly; steering the pack through tense turf talks with the Fetching Felines, brokered over chicken calzones. We’re keeping our cool when the cats get cheeky, with Lily’s diplomacy and Baxter’s old-school wisdom. Agility training was a breeze – I was airborne! Your four-legged mastermind’s keeping the peace, one paw at a time. More tails to come! 🐾 – Riley the Schemer

Listen to the story here

Ah, Pawsburgh – my kind of town. Here I roam, Riley, the Mini Aussie with a coat that rivals the sunset in brilliance, ruling the canine underworld one slobbered tennis ball at a time. When the humans close their eyes and the world belongs to the dogs, do I ever have a tale to wag for you.

We’ve got this place, Mastiff Meadows; it’s the plush green where the hoity-toity might lift a leg or two. But me? I’m strictly Doberman Dunes. I like the grit in my paws, the lack of pretension in the sand. Last night was no exception. With a moon that seemed to wink at our escapades, I saw Baxter, fur wise beyond his years, and Lily, her Collie coat shimmering like the glint of forbidden treasures. We were set to rendezvous at the Pawprint Pizzeria, where I’d ordered our usual – the chicken calzone (hold the vegetables for me, thank you very much). The aroma, quite unlike anything else.

We sat, the three musketeers, tails thumping in code like we own the joint, which between you and me, we kind of do. The jangle of collars was our music, a symphony to dine by. Not a creature dared cross us – well, save for the postal carrier, a fellow I would love to give a piece of my mind one of these days.

I let them in on the latest scoop. “Baxter, Lily,” I began, the drama dripping from my tongue, “the Fetching Feline Pet Emporium is pushing into our territory.” Their ears perked, gazes narrowed. “The clowder thinks they’re the cat’s whiskers, meddling with our supply of squeakers and bones from Fetch! Toys and Treats.”

This empire of ours, it’s not just about the turf; it’s about family, loyalty. I mused for a moment, my nub of a tail narrating my thoughts, “We can’t let them treat us like we’re rolling in kennel. Clean paws, a dirty war.”

Lily spoke up, melodious as the wind through Weimaraner Woods, “Riley, let’s not act on a flea’s impulse. There’s a way to collar this without showing our teeth.” I nodded, her wisdom always a treat, like a well-placed scratch behind the ear. “Alright,” I conceded, “let’s chew on this. But the moment they tread over to Mutt Munchies – it’s on.” An unspoken agreement bound us, stronger than any leash.

After the feast, we trotted to The Pawfect Training Center; even the meanest of us need an alibi. Agility was the word of the night. I, of course, showed them how it’s done – soaring over hurdles, ducking through tunnels, my red merle coat a flash of rebellious fire. Baxter ambled on the scent course like he was reading a bedtime story, and Lily wove through poles as if she composed a sonnet.

We whispered of grand plans and grander schemes as we parted ways, pawshakes sealing the night’s dealings. “Until next time,” Baxter murmured, the weight of his years cushioned by humor. “Stay out of trouble,” Lily chided, the twinkle in her eye belying her stern tone.

As the first rays of dawn crept onto my human’s yard, I returned to my earthly abode, my scruffy tennis ball in tow, a proud diplomat in the realm of dogs. Who said you can’t have it all? In Pawsburgh, under cover of night or the glow of daylight, I am larger than life. I am Riley – don’t you forget it.

The End.

Share This Story: