Hey human,

It’s me, Diamond, the Frenchie with flair from Onyx Otterhound Oasis. I’m the ‘Director of First Impressions’ here, juggling official greetings and canine deals with a wag. When I’m not adding sparkle to the office scene, I’m dreaming of rendezvous under tables and outwitting sprouts. Today’s a usual whirl of pups, parcels, and the occasional office plant mishap. Can’t wait to share more tales at Setter Shore, but until then, keep an eye on Mila for me, will ya?

Tail wags and face licks,
Diamond 💎✨

Listen to the story here

There I was, shuffling through the bustling corridors of Onyx Otterhound Oasis, the premier watering hole for the discerning canine of Pawsburgh. As a Frenchie with a certain panache, Diamond, they call me, I’d made quite a name for myself in these parts. And why ever not? With my shimmering grey-blue coat and the quaint little heart upon my chest, I was every bit the mascot for a magical dogtown’s office. But don’t be fooled; behind my beguiling eyes lay a mind sharp enough to negotiate the intricacies of canine commerce.

My days at “The Kennel,” a hub for the most fur-ocious of business mutts, often began with the clattering of paws on parquet; a symphony of ambition as every dog – from yipping Yorkies to serene Saint Bernards – took on the day’s work. Here we are, beings not burdened by bones alone, but also by budgets and brimming in-trays.

I, being of an amiable disposition and possessing an affable curiosity, had naturally ascended to a position of some affection amid the office pack. My official title? “Director of First Impressions.” A jaunty title for one often situated by the entrance, my desk festooned with a tapestry of chewed pens and a particularly dashing plush hedgehog (adventurer par excellence).

“Morning, Diamond,” chuffed Bernie, a burly Bullmastiff with a penchant for snacking on Paw-lickin’ Pancakes’ syrupy offerings, as he sauntered by.

“Bernie!” I greeted with a yip that was at once cheery and professional. This establishment might have resembled a scene from “The Pet Office,” but only with far more tail chasing and the odd impromptu fetch session.

Twixt papers and paw shakes, I’d often find my thoughts adrift – to the sun-drenched nook of the bookshop I called home, to Mila’s warm smile, or to my clandestine culinary delights shared under tables. Alas, for every savory memory of secret cheese, there lurked a wretched recollection of the dreaded Brussels sprout.

“Bella, Beau,” I intoned with gracious inflection as the Golden Twins sashayed past, tails aflutter. They were the perennially perky sort, always wagging, never weary.

The day’s excitement reached a peak when deliveries were due. Ah, The Groom Room’s parcels of pampering potions and baubles from The Snooty Snout Boutique incited more buzz than a dropped bone in a dog park. And then, a moment of stillness amid the chaos, as Gandalf, sage and serene, passed my desk en route to The Pooch Playhouse for a game of chess with Whiskers.

Our mirth was abundant, our mishaps many. As when Rolf, the Rottweiler in accounting, tried scaling the corporate ladder – quite literally – and ended up entwined in pot plants. Or when the meeting at Samoyed Square turned to mayhem as a chorus of howls followed a stray butterfly’s impromptu pitch invasion.

After the hustle of the day, when the last staple was set and the final email of “good boy” dispatched, we would wind down by Setter Shore, regaling each other with tales of our human companions’ obliviousness to our double lives. Whiskers, in his element, would embellish accounts of midnight prowls atop moon-kissed gables, as I awaited my night’s return to Mila, my truest friend.

And thus, we toiled in our canine capers, our daily lives a series of episodic escapades and desk-bound dreams. For in Pawsburgh, every pooch has a tail, and this one belongs to Diamond – reader, you know me well – of the twinkling coat and the laughing heart-shaped blot.

The End.

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