Hey there, partner in rhyme!

Just a quick wag from Tristan the Story Spinnin’ Bulldog – I won the heart of the finest Collie in Pawsburgh with just an old tennis ball and some tail-waggin’ tales. Turns out, genuine charm and a well-worn ball trump fancy bouquets any day. 🎾🐾

Now, Miss Lady Lu and I are cookin’ up new adventures in this dog-eat-dog world. Stay tuned for more antics!

Tail wags and face licks,
Tristan the Bulldog 🐶👑

Listen to the story here

Well now, let me bend your ear for a tale that’ll tickle your fancy like a feather on a hound’s snout. It began on one dew-splashed mornin’ as I, Tristan the Bulldog, found myself waddlin’ with a certain intentional purpose ’round the Ruby Rottweiler Ridge.

Now, Pawsburgh ain’t your usual spot on the map. ‘Tis a magical hamlet where we dogs, relief’d of our chains of domestic duties, can flutter about with the spirits of pups unleashed. On this particular day, a stirrin’ bit of excitement rushed through the air like the scent of a butcher’s promise—’twas the day of the Pet Bachelor, doggonit!

My dear friend Baxter, a beagle as cunning as he was vocal, cocked his ears and said, “Tristan, my lad, you’ve got a chance to win the heart of the fairest Collie in all the nooks of Newfoundland Nook.” An opera of howls from his throat marked the seriousness of his intent.

The stage was set in the grand pavilion at Cocker Courtyard. A gaggle of doggos, tails a-waggin’, eyes as hopeful as a beggin’ pup under Sunday dinner’s table, gathered ’round. Our bachelorette, Miss Lady Lu, fluffed her coat like a royalty ‘pon her velveteen cushion.

Now, I weren’t the only suitor; there were hounds of all breeds, from sleek Whippets to dapper Dachshunds, each speakin’ their piece to woo Miss Lu. But I, Tristan, with my heart-shaped patch, chose an old-fashioned route—that’f a heartfelt narrative.

We were offered the chance to present our tokens of affection. Some fetched sticks as splendid as any knight his sword; others trotted forth with bouquets filched from the Duchess’ own garden. But I stood there with nary but my tennis ball, worn with love, rich with tales.

As I loped to Miss Lu, I began, “My dear, this ball ain’t much to look at—like myself, perhaps—but let me tell ya it harbors adventures grand and heartfelt joys profound.”

She blinked, her eyes a-twinkle, and inclined her snout. “Pray continue, sir,” she murmured, hopin’ for a yarn worth the listenin’.

And so, in Twain’s own drawl, I spun my tale. “Once, Miss Lu, this hunk of felt ‘n’ rubber found its way ‘cross the Pawsburgh Fair, rollin’ under the hooves of gallopin’ ponies and popping right back like nothin’ happened…”

I regaled her with its rescue from a storm drain, escapades at Chowhound’s Chophouse that left the patrons clappin’, and sundown duels with my shadow where the ball stood as my only trusty ally. Each account was as seasoned as a good retellin’ should be, and her interest, it piqued like the sun over Whippet Wraps at noontime.

Miss Lu, she listened rapt as the sirens of the sea. “Mister Tristan, you claim no valor nor title, yet you’ve shared a richness far outweighin’ these pompous gifts. You speak of loyalty, adventure, and comfort in simplicity,” she pronounced, her voice as melodious as Whiskers’ purring affection. “Such is the true measure of companionship.”

In the end, Miss Lu took up my companion ball, pronouncin’ its tale the champion of her heart. And as we strolled paw-in-paw through Dachshund’s Deli, the bitin’ scent of citrus no deterrent to our merry jaunt, we spun new stories in Pawsburgh—a land of wonderous tails and jest as joyous as any canine caper.

And if you’ve been swayed to sniff the air in search of my tale’s scent, why, perchance you’ve caught a whiff of what makes our Pawsburgh—a place for tails well wagged and hearts well won.

The End.

Share This Story: