Hey human,

Just reflecting on a day of doggo delights in Pawsburgh with my pals Bentley and Daisy. Tasted some Pawprint Pizzeria, pondered the chew of life, chased the very essence of doghood, and aimed for canine enlightenment. Be proud, for your Nemo is sniffing out the path to a good dog’s nirvana, one wag at a time.
Dream of bones and belly rubs,

Nemo 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

The sunrise painted the skies of Pawsburgh with the soft pinks and oranges of a blooming rose, but I, Nemo, a speckled troubadour of the English Springer Spaniel variety, was not one to laze in bed. There’s nary a dog in Pawsburgh High or low who sees daylight before me, I can assure you. Save for that pesky Robin by the window, who fancies himself the town’s alarm. Blast his chirpy soul!

This jaunty morn, though, the bustle began in earnest. You see, to be a good dog is an occupation most serious – ask any of the tail-waggers parading on Bichon Boulevard – but on this particular day, I yearned to inch closer to canine nirvana. Where a wag means more than joy but a stamp of approval from the moral compass that spins unseen.

Eskimo Estuary called to me, the whispers in the leaves extolling the virtues of early-dog frolics – where the water is as clear as canine conscience and as refreshing as a gulp from the Fountain of Barked Virtues. With my chums Bentley and Daisy nipping at my heels, we made a dash worthy of Malamute Mountain’s own frost-laden races. Off-leash and off-duty as protectors of our humans’ abodes, our trio cavorted past quaint shops like Canine Couture Clothing, where mannequins donned dapper attire that’d make a monarch’s corgi roll over in envy.

Bentley eyed the doorway, batting those lashes of liquid gold. “You know, ol’ chap,” he said, in that cultured drawl that Golden Retrievers seemed to come equipped with, “a good dog must dress the part, too.”

“Aye, Bentley,” I replied with a wink, “But clothes do not the mutt make.”

We paraded on, my heart set on our hangout, Pawprint Pizzeria. The scent of sizzling sausages and crispy crusts wafting through the air is a symphony for the nostrils. “A slice of roast chicken topping, if you’d please,” I told the fluffy Pomeranian behind the counter. Her pouty face and beady eyes gave away nothing, but the tail’s twitch told me we were in sync.

As I munched, I pondered the canine condition. Each chew was a step closer to gastronomic enlightenment, a slurp of insight into the responsibility of being Nemo, a dog truly good. I pondered the ball in the meadow, how it connected me to a world universal – boundless joy, untethered by petty human concerns of currency and caloric count.

After satiating our bellies, our fellowship found resolution in a visit to the Pawsome Pet Pharmacy. Daisy, with her beagle snout pressed against the glass, spoke of aspiration. “How many chews must a dog chew to chew the right chew?” she queried, and the whimsy of her musings lightened my step.

By mid-afternoon, the shadows grew tall, and in their cool embrace, Bentley mused aloud. “To be a good dog means to chase not just the ball, but the very essence of doghood. To gnaw through the leather of life and find the squeaker of self-improvement.”

“Aye, Bentley, and spit out those lemons of discontent while we’re at it,” Daisy added with a sharp bark of agreement.

Twilight beckoned us homeward, and as the stars pricked the velvet skies, I recounted our deeds to my human companion, her ears lending credence to my canine sojourns.

For in Pawsburgh, every dog has his day. But not every dog strives to be better with each sunrise. In the contemplation of tails and treats, there lies the truth of a life well-lived. And so, with a heart full and fur warmed by the knowledge of a purpose pursued, I wished the moon goodnight, a dog content – a dog good.

The End.