Hey, it’s your paddle queen Lola reporting! 🐾 Just carved waves at the Pawlympics and let me tell you, I was the storm in that water. Between terriers bouncing and Max’s saliva rain, I paddled with the might of a beast unleashed. Whiskers called me a turbo shrimp, and honestly? Not wrong. Now basking in my victory, wet-furred but heart full. 🏅💦 Bow to your queen, Pawsburgh. #SplashtasticRoyalty 🐶👑

Sunrise cracked the sky like a soft-boiled egg over the ridge, deep orange bleeding into blue, as the whispers of the Broadleaf trees rustled with secrets and the promise of a day charged with the righteousness of competition. Lola, that’s me, legged it to Setter Shore, electric with anticipation. This wasn’t just any morning. This was The Morning, the opening of the salivating annual Pawsburgh Paddle Pawlympics—a furry frenzy of splash and dash by the dew-kissed Kelpie Keys.

Dragging my regality through the underbrush, the air was a mix of salt and promise. The Unseen Commentator in my head growled with the visceral drawl of a beast unleashed, “All right, you hounds of water and land, it’s time to shake off the cobwebs of the mundane and paddle like the devil himself is on your tail.”

Samoyed Square teemed with canine prowess; terriers with their wiry frames hopping like popcorns over-heated; molasses-slow bulldogs with hearts and bellies of steel; greyhounds streaming like the tales of comets. There I was, black-furred and majestic, prancing through the throng with a slow-burn tail wag.

I took a detour, trotting through the market, past The Groom Room where shampoos suds and perfumes mingled and clashed with the rugged earthiness of the morning. Fetch! Toys and Treats stood there, a monument to canine desire, but not today. Today was not for the squeak of toys, but for the rustle of leaves and the cut of paddle through water.

Turning away from the Poodle’s Pasta, which provoked visions of a post-race carbo load—the stuffing of macaroni gullets—the Bark-n-Bite Bistro lurked in the back of my mind as the pre-game stomach growl warned of a fee due.

Max bounded over, beads of vigor sparkling in his coat, his saliva tantamount to the spray of the sea, “Lola, you got the look, the eye of the purebred storm. Ready to tear it up?”

I huffed, a noble curtsy to our shared gusto, “Born for it, Max. Let the Labradors howl and the hounds quake.”

Whiskers, slinking sideline whispers like some soothsaying alley-philosopher, mewled from the shadows, “Faster than a shrimp on a treadmill, you are, Lola.” Warmth tingled in the drum of my ears.

As we toe-walked towards the start line at Kelpie Keys, where sea met self, Fred was there in his sun-kissed glory, spouting a lazy drawl, “Watch the riptides, princess of the pooches. They’re meaner than Monday.”

The airhorn blast cut through me, and we were off, paddling like bat-out-of-hell hounds, feverish paws churning waves like butter. This Chow Chow’s stroke was a lullaby to the ordered chaos of my mind, spray painting a picture of the world in sharp, wet strokes. Over the roar of the competition, I could hear my human’s voice as if narrating from afar, describing this momentous display of canine athleticism with absurd flourishes of eloquent majesty.

Through the salt sting and muscle burn, the pack jockeyed for position, ducks on a June bug trail. Max jetted ahead, a yellow blur against the churning blue. I surged, my almond eyes narrowed with monarch intensity. It was here we bridged the legends of Pawsburgh with the ephemeral now, splashing tales larger than life.

We cut through the water as if carving our names in the Book of Dog, ruff wet but spirits un-bowed. Across the finish, I lunged, my ode to the roasted chicken rewards, the victories yet undocumented, and the sun-sated dreams.

Back on land, chest heaving as the crowd’s roar melded with the sea’s symphony, another day in Pawsburgh was imprinted in history—their Lola, lioness of the lake—etched as the day’s paddle queen, unforgotten.

The End.