Hey Mom,

Had a rollickin’ day at Canine Co.—won over a Chihuahua, got pizza from Mr. Mastiff, and surfed the waves at sunset with Dottie. Being Pawsburgh’s top dog ain’t easy, but someone’s gotta do it!

Licks and wags,
Chunky Dunk 🐾📱

When I left this morning, you wouldn’t have known it was going to be such a day, because days, like bones, are often buried in surprise. I’m Chunk, by the way, the pitbull with spots you could lose a tennis ball in. Ruff day at the office, you ask? Well, let me wag you through it.

It started like any other, the humdrum of Pawsburgh beating like my tail against the hardwood floor. I rolled out of bed—or more accurately, off my human’s bed—and bounded off to Canine Co., the most tail-waggingly fun paper company this side of Rottweiler Ridge. You see, when the humans are away, we, the dogs of Pawsburgh, play… and work, apparently.

By the time I strutted through the doors of Canine Co., Dottie was already fielding calls with the poise of a queen. “Morning, Chunk,” she barked, a spreadsheet pinned under her paw. “The Fetching Feline order is late… again.” I chuckled. Figures. We never did get on with those cats.

I trotted to my desk—if you could call a pile of squeaky toys a desk—and took my first call. “Howl-o, Canine Co., Chunk speaking.” I must have been charming because the Chihuahua on the other end promised to triple our order. I gave myself a congratulatory lick.

But success is fleeting, especially when you’re a dog in a mockumentary office world. No sooner had I hung up than in strutted the big kahuna, Mr. Mastiff, all drool and authority. “Chunk,” he growled, “stop Digging Through the Trash Initiative—is it buried yet?”

“Nearly,” I replied, flashing my best innocent grin, the one that says, ‘yes, I chewed your slippers, but you’ll forgive me because I’m adorable.”

Lunch at Labrador Lunch was a welcome break. I ordered the special—chicken, no surprises there—and we all toasted to Dottie’s latest squirrel-chasing tale. Barks of laughter filled the air, shared stories of hidden treats and misadventures. Work was a treasure hunt, and we were all pirates seeking the bone of contention, or in our case, the teetering pile of bone-shaped paper products.

The afternoon sauntered in, and with it, the tedious tapping of paws on keyboards. Our office was a symphony of sniffles and snorts, punctuated by the occasional “Squirrel!” alert. Then the unthinkable happened. The pizza delivery dog turned up with a pie for Mr. Mastiff. The smell of it! More aromatic than any hydrant I’d ever nosed.

There’s a rule in Pawsburgh that no dog shall covet another’s snack, but I faltered. My resolve melted like cheese in the sun. Just as I was losing myself in a fantasy of tomatoey, cheesy splendor, Mr. Mastiff caught my eye. He huffed, dropped the slice onto my pile of squeaky toys, and uttered, “Good work today, Chunk.”

Ah, the beach. By the time I got there, the sun was a big, red ball just begging for a chase. Dottie bounded up, kicking sand into tomorrow. “Race ya to the waves!” she barked. And we were off, crashing through the foam like it was our own, personal office party.

As the day bowed out, stars pricking the sky like staples in a cosmic memo, I dug a hole, not to bury a bone or a secret, but to hold the memory of today. Because every day in Pawsburgh is a story, and I, Chunk, am its inky-pawed scribe.

And that, dear human, is the tail-wagging truth of it all.

The End.

Share This Story: