Hey you,

Just wrapped up another tail-wagging day at Pawper Inc. Nailed a pitch to Roger and kept the chewnancials on track with Max’s help. Remember, what happens in Pawsburgh, stays in Pawsburgh! 😉

Catch you on the flip side,
Amber 🐾✨

So there I was, Amber the Labradoodle—spunky, seasoned salesdog of Pawper Inc., located right on Sapphire Schnauzer Street. Think “The Office,” but less about paper and more about the important stuff—like squeaky toys and gourmet treats. And, okay, yes, some paperwork. Because let’s be real, even dogs have quotas.

I waltzed in from my brisk walk from Shiba Inlet (a fantastic place for pre-work zoomies, by the way) and plopped down at my desk, a purposeful area dedicated to the pursuit of Pawsburgh’s most premium playthings. The humans think it’s all cuddles and belly rubs. Ha! Let’s just keep it our little secret that we’re running the show.

Anyway, my morning routine: check my emails. Deleted something from HR about excessive tail wagging—it’s a health hazard, supposedly. Note to self: less tail, more sale.

Max the Beagle from accounting stopped by to drop off my chewnancial report. I know, I know, we’re not supposed to have favorites, but Max, with his droopy ears and innate ability to make numbers do the boogie-woogie, he’s the bee’s knees. “You’re on track, Amber. But don’t forget the Henderson account needs those rubber chicken figures by Friday,” he said with a conspiratorial whisper.

Next, it was off to the Bark-n-Bite Bistro for a working lunch. There, my team and I congregated around a fire hydrant-shaped table, brainstorming the next big pitch. I ordered the steak tartare. It was to die for, even if my server, a roguish Rottweiler with a lazy eye, couldn’t get my water bowl without slobbering in it. Luna, our social media guru, chewed thoughtfully on her bone. “We should collaborate with Fetch! Toys and Treats on that new range of indestructible balls,” she suggested, wagging.

Great thought, Luna! That’s why we’ve been the top dogs in this business for years.

Back at the office, as the clock struck the magical hour of 3 PM, all work paused. Snack time. And not just any snacks—chicken tidbits from Terrier Tacos. Dear humans, if you haven’t tried it, you’re missing out. Like, really.

Post-snack productivity swooned, a known side effect. Yet, I found myself gallantly fighting the food coma, squeaky blue dragon in mouth, giving the sales pitch of my life to Roger (yes, another golden retriever named Roger—what are the odds?) from The Dapper Dog Salon.

Roger was skeptical. “But will these toys really stand up to our clientele’s… enthusiastic grooming sessions?”

I squeaked the dragon with gusto. “Roger, trust me, these babies could survive a sharknado.”

He chuckled. “Alright, Amber. I’m in. Let’s make our furry clients the happiest on the block.”

As the day wrapped up, I concluded my mockumentary-style interview right under the nosy lens of our hidden cameras. “You know,” I mused, “Pawsburgh may just be a product of our collective canine imagination, but who’s to say our reality is less important than the humans’?”

I glanced around my office, at my fellow pooches typing away, tails thumping against the carpeted floor. “We’re passionate, driven, and, yes, occasionally distracted by a well-thrown tennis ball, but at the end of the day—we’re a family. And that’s what makes Pawper Inc. the best darn toy company in the world.”

With that, I took my usual shortcut home through Doberman Dunes, where the sand sculptures of the world’s greatest fire hydrants glimmered in the sunset.

“See you tomorrow, Pawsburgh,” I whispered with a knowing smile. After all, a dog’s work is never done.

The End.

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