Hey Ma,

Today I was the unlikely ‘big dog’ in Pawsburgh’s quirky tale! Was hailed for my wisdom at Bulldog’s BBQ, not for my appetite for once. 😆🍖 Declined a throne cuz what’s a crown to comfy cuddles at home? Just a regular day of being your chill ‘Mugzelli.’ 🐾💕 No royal seat can beat your boy dozing off with his fav cow hoof.

Stay paw-some!

Mugzelli 🐶✨

Ah, let me tell ye about a day that stood out, even in the enchanting realm of Pawsburgh, a place where our collars are loosened and the hidden kingdom within yawns wide in dreamy splendor – all while the humans snore obliviously in their high-thread-count sheets.

‘Twas a crisp morning in Hound Heights, let me tell you. The dew was fresh upon the leaves, as if painted by an artist’s brush – a sight to behold for the likes of me. I’m Mugsy, by the by, a Platinum Merle White American Bulldog with a streak of calm stubbornness that could outlast the stubbornness of the most tenacious terrier. But this morn, with the glint of a high-stakes day ahead, my large, alert cropped ears twitched with unusual anticipation.

Pawsburgh, you see, is not just any old town. It’s a land rich with political gambits and delicious drama, where the squeak of a toy underpaw could signal both playtime and a play for power. My confidantes in these escapades are ChiChi, with her lilting stride, and Bandit, the rogue who could snatch a treat from under your snout faster than you could bark objection.

Now on this day, the throne of Pawsburgh – yes, an actual throne built from bones of conquests past and chew toys of great renown – stood unclaimed. As the sun peaked over Emerald Eskimo Estuary, I mused at the thought. The bone of contention, a regal seat, was not one I lusted for, yet intrigue swirled around Harrier Harbor as if carried by the darting dragonflies that played in its mist.

I lounged upon my favorite grassy knoll, my worn cow hoof forgotten beside me as the whispers of upheaval reached my keen ears. Each faction, from the pugs to the pointers, was abuzz with strategy. “Will Mugsy stake a claim?” they pondered. Me, I much preferred the simple choreography of a good chew, rendering tough matter into malleable musings, like how the high heavens crafted the Milky Way from cosmic cream.

However, tales of power often entwine themselves around even the most reluctant hero, and as the sun crept higher, I found myself at Bulldog’s BBQ, ensnaring my senses in the smoky aroma of sizzling treats. A council of canines convened, tails stiff as crowbars, barks groomed more for debate than bark parks.

“Good Mugsy,” they hailed, “what counsel can you lend?”

Turning to the countenances circling me, my large frame settled onto my haunches comfortably. “Friends,” I began, leaning into the Nora-Ephron-esque frankness that thrummed in my veins, “what we need is not a throne, but a companion. Not a ruler, but a playmate.”

A murmur threaded through the assembly. The power of the pack, is it not more than the love of leadership?

Under the lamplight of fading day, Shopshire of Best in Show Photography captured my likeness, perhaps as a contender, though I held no flag high. I left Pawsburgh’s politics within its pulsing borders and returned to my Earthly realm, the familiar hand of my mom twining through my majestic light brown coat.

So here I am now, a bone in my jowls, poised beneath a tangerine sunset, grateful for the plain-spoken pleasures of life. Let Pawsburgh’s throne sit unwarmed by my haunches; let it wait for one more desperate for its cold comfort. For in the end, all I yearn for is the soulful sweetness in the routine cuddles, the companionship of a worn cow hoof, and the tender end to my day, marked with the loving touch of home.

The End.