Hey Mom,

Managed to play diplomat in a doggy turf war today at Setter Shore – got the Greyhound Guild and Cousin Bart’s crew to share their digging grounds. Who knew an English Bulldog could broker peace? Pawsburgh rests easier tonight! My bed is calling, but just wanted to say I love you.

Big hugs and slobbery kisses,
Hercules 🐾💪📱

In the sprawling tapestry of twilight whispers and salty seabreeze, there lies Pawsburgh—a bastion of canine joy and the clandestine playground of yours truly, Hercules. I saunter through the city gates, leaving the echoes of mundane human life behind, for a spectacle far more savory awaits me in the lush underbrush of Weimaraner Woods.

I do fancy myself a creature of disinclined athleticism, so one may wonder what business has an English Bulldog such as I in the wilds of a forest. Ah, but family calls, and drama unfolds—as my cousin, the beagle Bartholomew, has found himself embroiled in a quarrel with the Greyhound Guild over at Setter Shore.

The issue at paw is a territory tussle; a discrepancy over the rights to the choicest digging spots in Saluki Sands. Why anyone would feud over a patch of dirt rather than recline at Doggone Deli for the finest cuts is beyond my reason. But then again, perhaps it’s the simple pleasures they seek, and who am I to begrudge such fancies?

Passing The Snooty Snout Boutique, my nose twitches at the odors of new wears, the fabrics whispering tales of grandeur. In distaste, I bypass it all—such frivolity doesn’t suit the gravity of a family meeting. Even the allure of The Pup’s Parfait, which beckons with its sweet concoctions, cannot deter my purpose.

Bartholomew greets me with a wag of his tail, his eyes holding an edge of desperation. “Cousin Hercules, your wisdom is needed,” he pants, leading me towards a council of the most distinguished doggos of Pawsburgh.

Round a table littered with half-gnawed bones and balls, the Greyhound Guild – slender and sleek – and our somewhat more robust kin sit in heated debate. It’s a scene fit for a Shakespearean tragedy, yet here it is, unfolding as an audience of terriers and shepherds look on.

“Our dear Bartholomew insists these sands belong to his brood, but history states otherwise!” barks a stately greyhound with a glare.

“History,” I muse aloud, positioning myself between the quarrellers. “A fine thread in the tapestry of life, but let us not forget the fabric is continuous. Room enough for shared stories, methinks. Why not a compromise? Permit your pups to play in harmony—joint guardians of these sands.”

The crowd murmurs, tales of “Herculean wisdom” already spreading. The Guild huddles in whispering camaraderie, offering furtive glances my way. And after a brief pause, their leader steps forward.

“Hercules, English Bulldog of sensibility, your words strike true. Let it be known that from this day forth, these sands will cradle the paws of beagle and greyhound alike. A truce, cemented by your fair judgement.”

A howl of approval rises like a wave, washing over the conflict, leaving peace in its wake. Bartholomew licks my face in gratitude, and my heart swells—today, I’ve been more than a mere presence; I’ve been a peacemaker.

The sun dips below the horizon, casting shadows over Pawsburgh, the tree-lined silhouette of Weimaraner Woods a darkened veil to the stars above. I retreat from the celebrations early, longing for the hushed peace of my own realm. A quick trot past Spaniel Spaghetti and I’m nearly home, my heavy steps softened by the sandy pathway I know so well.

But before I reach the dimness of my sleeping quarters, a familiar feeling stops me. A delivery box sits by my door, an unwitting intruder in my domain. With a snarl of displeasure, I nudge it aside. After all, some nuisances, like the waves at Setter Shore, are eternal.

The trials and tribulations of the day settle into the folds of my bed as I lay my head upon my squeaky bone chalice, a knight tempered by the dramas of family and fellowship. So it is in Pawsburgh, and so it shall be forevermore.

The End.

Share This Story: