Hey Mom 🐾✨,

Just led the Grand Chew Toy Debate at work – think House of Commons but furrier and with more tail-wagging. Jury’s still out on whether it’s chicken or sausage-flavored supremacy. Got interrupted by Emmerson, the HR Cat (typical). No decisions yet, but there’s always tom! 🐶🎩 Sending tail wags and love,

MillieMoo 🐕💕

Listen to the story here

It was a particularly brisk morning in Spencerville, where not even the sun could puncture the fog that embraced the town like a rather overenthusiastic aunt. In the midst of this woolly world, Beagle Beach lay silent, the waves lapping at the shore with discreet politeness. It wasn’t just any day, mind you; it was the Day of the Grand Chew Toy Debate at the Spencerville Pet Office.

I, Millie – a pooch whose charm could disarm the grumpiest of cats – had taken it upon myself to orchestrate this monumental event. As I strolled down the main drag, shaded by buildings that appeared to have been designed by an architect with a predilection for dog bones and fire hydrants, my mind was abuzz with anticipation. Today, marked in every pet calendar with a paw stamp of significance, we would decide on the official chew toy of the office.

The Pet Office was splendidly ludicrous – a place where four-legged creatures traced figures of eight in swivel chairs and tip-typed on keyboards with paws less suited for typing and more for digging up neighbor Beagle Bob’s prized tulips.

Henry and Shiloh, my trusty co-conspirators and fellow committee members, were already gathered at the grand conference table – a structure that, to us, was akin to King Arthur’s round table, albeit with more drool stains.

“I envision a chew toy that speaks to the very soul of canine joy,” I declared, toying with a strand of errant fur that had wedged its way onto my notepad. “One that endures both the test of time and the enthusiasm of a teething terrier.”

Shiloh, bearing a mutt’s mantle of mystery mixed with a hint of terrier temerity, scoffed. “It’s a chew toy, not the Holy Grail, Millie.”

Henry, whose Labrador lineage oozed out like smooth caramel from his every word, chimed in. “I think it should be chicken-flavored. No, wait – maybe sausage-flavored. Or chicken…no, sausage…”

Our bickering was as essential to the fabric of the office as the sunrise, and just about as regular.

As we delved into the belly of the beast that was chew toy suitability – durability, slobber resistance, bounceability – the clock ticked on, indifferent to our lofty deliberations.

It was at the height of our debate, as we stood facing the abyss that separates a squeaky toy from a silent one, that Emmerson, the Cat from HR, sauntered in, with a disdain for punctuality that only felines truly muster.

With a look of boredom expertly practiced, Emmerson plopped down unceremoniously next to my Eeyore toy. “You do realize there’s an error in the quarterly catnip forecast, yes?”

A collective sigh from around the table indicated the closing of the discussion – at least for today. I gathered my notes and tucked Eeyore under my arm, bidding adieu to my culinary conundrum for now. After all, one cannot let the great chew toy debate overshadow the perils of catnip supply chains.

And so, with the sweet smell of Furrific Fried Chicken wafting over from a nearby street, I left the office, my head held high and my paws unburdened by decisive victory. But fear not, this isn’t the end, as no story ever truly is; there’s always tomorrow and indeed, the next day in Spencerville, where every pet and tale has its day.

A mockumentary crew followed my every step, with their ceaseless, unblinking camera eye capturing the essence of our Pet Office escapades. They, like you, had become privy to the harmonious mayhem that enveloped our days – a symphony of barks, meows, and the occasionally dropped chew toy, which, no doubt, we’ll pick up right where we left off.

The End.