Hey buddy, just had to regale you with today’s tail tale! I strutted my plumed banner in the Tail Wagging Tourney. While the terrier took the prize, I wagged with the panache of Astaire and the verve of a street carnival. It’s not about the trophies, but how we wag through life’s adventures. Chat at Mutt Munchies? – Rio 🐾

There I sat, a myriad of sable, white, and jet black, eyes peeled on the unfolding drama like a lad at a picture show. You see, today was no ordinary day in Pawsburgh; it was the day of the Great Tail Wagging Tournament at Ruby Rottweiler Ridge, and I, Rio the collie, was nursing my jangled nerves with a side of Martha’s infamous duck and apple biscuits.

“Life,” I reflected with a bite, “is good. But competition is the spice that kicks it up a notch.”

I decamped from my usual spectator stance, deciding to toss my plumed tail into the ring. Sir Pricklepants, ever my stoic ally, watched from the sidelines with that squeaky insouciance.

“You’ve got the wit and the tail, Rio,” said Rumble, his Saint Bernard wisdom rolling like distant thunder. “Just remember, it’s not about the tail’s size, but how you wag it.”

Arriving fashionably late at the Ridge (for which dog deems punctuality a virtue?), I saw throngs of canine competitors, tails of all shapes, thumping with the rhythm of unbridled enthusiasm.

“May the best tail win,” I murmured, though I kept my expectations leashed — better safe than sorry, as the humans say.

“Rio!” Mopsy chuckled, chalking up the scoreboard. “Come to show them how it’s wagged?”

“Darling,” I replied, “I aim to wag not only with vigor but with the grace of Astaire and Rogers. One should always have style, after all.”

The competition was stiff, the tails stiffer – some corkscrewed, others pom-pommed, a few, like brushes daubing invisible masterpieces – yet none possessed the narrative flair of my own splendid tag end.

Then the wags began. Tails flurried like flags in a regatta, as the judges, solemn as nuns at matins, scrutinized each motion with keen eyes. A beagle boogied, a dachshund did the shimmy, and a poodle’s pompom did the pompous.

My turn. Channeling the serene composure of one born to stand before queens, I took center stage. And with a wag, which I hoped was a Parker-esque blend of chic and nonchalance, I let loose. My tri-color banner whipped the air, erudite yet joyous, philosophical yet very much ready to party.

“Bravo!” came a bark from the crowd. Mopsy was laughing so hard; she nearly fell off her chair.

At Mutt Munchies, the after-party was the talk of the town. The Doggy Depot had put up a prize for the victor: a year’s supply of squeaky toys. You’d think they’d offered a seat on the city council, for all the fuss it made.

“Should have seen their faces when your tail took to swinging,” Rumble guffawed, “like it was painting the Mona Lisa.”

“And without a trace of vanity,” added Whiskers, whose attendance was as rare as a quiet dog park, her feline eyes gleaming with mirth.

The results were announced as the golden disc of sun bid adieu to Pawsburgh. Did I clinch the title? Let’s just say, my story ends not in triumph of ribbon but of spirit. The prize went to a young terrier, whose tail wag had more spunk than a firecracker.

Yet, as I sauntered home, a winner in Martha’s eyes, I pondered the true essence of sport – not the victory or defeat but the jaunty wagging through it all. After all, every day in Pawsburgh is not about the accolades one earns, but the tales one wags.

The End.