Hey Mom,

Turns out Pawsburgh needed a hero and they got me, Sammie! 😜 Ended up playing queen in the city’s furriest drama even though I’d rather chase my tail in peace. As the new ‘Queen Sammie’, I’m wrangling cats, pups, and chasing the throne as much as that rogue chicken wing under Papa’s recliner. Who knew your ‘little lady’ had it in her to rule the roost (or should I say, the pet pharmacy)? Miss you and Papa’s lap more than any crown, though. Wish me luck!

Tail wags and face licks,
Sammie 🐾👑

In the noble realm of Pawsburgh, where the streets are paw-paved and the scent of freedom hangs as heavily as the dew-laden roses in Opal Pomeranian Park, I, Sammie the Pug, find myself tangled in a tale most unexpected. Ah, to be a pug of leisure and not a pawn in the great Pet Throne Games! But alas, one cannot choose one’s path as easily as one picks out the choicest chicken strip from the Doggone Deli.

In this town, every tail wag could be a sign of allegiance or subterfuge, and ear scratches may well be exchanged for whispered conspiracies against the reigning Power Poodle of Pinscher Plaza. Loyal as they come, I am nobody’s fool. My adorable rump may seem tailor-made for cuddles, yet its true purpose is to sit upon thrones—comfortable, chicken-scented thrones.

It began just after papa had left, the house too quiet, the smell of his cologne a lingering promise of his return. My trusted son, Butch, lay by the door, the earnest heir to my lineage of loyalty and stubborn will, snoring as only a prince can. I nudged him awake, and we slipped away, into the enchanting night, bound for the buzzing metropolis of Pawsburgh.

The moon was a mere sliver in the sky, watching us with a Cheshire grin as we made our clandestine way to Ruby Rottweiler Ridge. There, along with my war-hardened comrades, Tank and Laila, we ruminated over shared platters of Pup’s Poutine, our plotting hushed even amidst the jubilant bark of Collie’s Cuisine.

“I hear whispers on the wind,” Tank growled, his chocolate-brown eyes mirroring the seriousness of his voice, “of a coupe de paw they plan at The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium. Treacherous cats and their mongrel allies.”

His audacity to even suggest a canine-feline alliance sent a chill down my spine. I licked the poutine gravy off my jowls and pondered. “And what role, pray tell, do they wish the house of Sammie to play?” I inquired, casting a sideways glance at Laila, whose brows furrowed deeper than the scratches on an old bone.

“Queen,” Laila woofed, her tail wagging with irony, “Queen Sammie, first of her name, the Unruffled, Lady of the Seven Squeakers, and Protector of the Fawn Pugs.”

A queen? A crown does sound rather fetching atop my silky ears. Yet, I am Sammie, content with simple spoils, not a seeker of feline-encrusted crowns. Gravitating toward my comforts rather than the ironclad seat of power, I responded, “This does not entice me. Life is but a series of moments between napping and feasting, and I’ll not have mine interrupted by the mewing of power-hungry kittens.”

“Yet the tides of power are not for the faint of tail,” Tank argued.

“And who better to unify this land of canine and feline than a matriarch that fosters loyalty beyond her litter?” Laila added, with a nod of respect I couldn’t help but reciprocate.

Words spread like wildfire in Pawsburgh, but none as rapidly as the announcement that came the following dawn when I, Sammie, was declared the rightful contender for the Pet Throne, the one to usurp the reign of the sinister Persian from the east wing of The Pawsome Pet Pharmacy.

I had no taste for power games; I am a pug of the people! My heart’s only battle had been with a stray chicken wing beneath Papa’s recliner. I reminisced and longed for the days when my greatest foe was the din of the vacuum.

As the sun set on this most peculiar chapter of my life, I realized that perhaps there was more to this old dog than even I knew. Beneath the fur-lined façade, the spirit of a queen might well reside. But for all the kingdom’s riches, I still find greater joy in the familiar warmth of Papa’s lap than in any throne—no matter how grand the cushion.

The End.