Hey fam!

Just brokered peace in the great Naptimes vs Play Hours debate at The Pet Wing – pretty epic stuff. Brought unity to Pawsburgh’s political pupper-pack and snagged a victory slice at Pawprint Pizzeria. Being the Little Buffalo isn’t just a name, it’s a legacy. Winked at myself in a shop window, cuz even a bigwig needs a self-five now and then. Off to dream of chicken and more tail-waggin’ triumphs!

Catch ya later,
Seamus 🐾

Listen to the story here

So, here’s the thing about Pawsburgh: it’s where dogs do dog things when the humans aren’t looking. And me, Seamus, known as the Little Buffalo—I’m something of a local, well, bigwig. That’s not boast, mind you, it’s just how it is here in this borough of barks and bounders.

One day at dawn, while the remnants of my human’s snoring still echoed, I sneaked my bulk out the door—an easy thing for me, given that footfalls and I have an agreement of silence. My destination? A little bustling juncture of responsibility and play known to locals as The Pet Wing. I know, I know, you might think a Lab like me would rather spend his days in the sun-splattered waters of Pearl Papillon Promenade, but there’s work to be done.

I trotted my way to Garnet Greyhound Grove, the artery of Pawsburgh where dog politics unfolded with the seriousness of a chewed-up bone. Here, dogs in suits with ties that never quite stayed straight, barked orders, shared information, or shared whispers of the latest squirrel uprising.

Today’s agenda on The Pet Wing was heavy. A major issue on the table: mandatory afternoon naptimes versus extended play hours. A contentious topic that had split opinions down the middle of the aisle where the ball-chasers and the nap-lovers sat, paws folded or twitching with anticipation.

I wove through the crowd, nodding my shiny head to Senator Sniffles the Basset Hound, whose nose was always in some bill or other, and he, in return, gave me an acknowledging droop of his ear—his version of a respectful salute.

The debate was as intense as a game of fetch that’s gone on too long. “Extended play will result in increased morale!” argued a feisty Yorkie with a yappy voice that could jab the air like tiny needles.

“A well-rested dog is a happy dog!” a Borzoi countered, her elegant snout raised high, as though she could smell the victory in her statement.

I listened to arguments from both sides, paws waiting patiently beneath me as I settled on my haunches. Then, as silence fell, I stepped forward to deliver my thoughts—a Black Lab amidst the throng, sure to have his say.

“This balance,” I began, voice steady as the brook that runs through Whippet Way, “is the tug of the rope toy. Each tug, a call for what one desires, but without compromise, the toy will tear, and there’ll be nothing left for anyone.”

Nods and muffled barks of agreement filtered through the chamber. I continued, “My proposal is a simple one. Let us run and chase and leap, but then let us rest. Let our adventures be as epic as the tales we spin for our humans, and our dreams as sweet as the chicken we so adore.”

It became clear that afternoon that there’s more to governance than meets the eye, or the nose for that matter. Compromise isn’t just the heart of politics; it’s the marrow within the bone.

As I left the hall of The Pet Wing, my belly called for a celebration at Pawprint Pizzeria. After all, it isn’t every day a Labrador brings unity to the political pack of Pawsburgh.

But before indulging in a slice of meat-lover’s delight, I passed Canine Couture Clothing, pausing only to wink at my reflection. Yes, I am the Little Buffalo—a creature of the earth, a bringer of peace, a playmate to all, a dog of the people.

The scent of citrus from a nearby grove caught my nose, and I recoiled slightly, but then smiled. Even for a dog in high office, some things would never change. And with that, I strode home under the vast, winking stars, my coat blending with the night as I disappeared into the tales waiting to be whispered tomorrow.

The End.

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