Hey Mom and Dad,

Guess who’s acing his role as top dog at the pawffice today? 🐾 I’m strategizing a rubber chicken surplus into ‘stress busters’ at Paws and Reflect. Think of it as turning squeaks into perks! 🐔😎 Also, made sure not to end up a doggy paddle away from adventure. P.S. Planning my great escape from bath day, wish me luck! 🛁

Tail wags and woofs,
Vlad 🐕✨

It’s a pen-and-paper kind of morning, and I’m perched atop my cushy throne; they call it a bed but here in Spencerville, it’s where royal decrees are made—mostly involving extra treats and longer walks. A warm sunbeam coats the brindle fur on my back, and I stretch, marrow-deep, savoring the way the light makes a kaleidoscope of my stripes.

I’m Vlad. And if you’re catching my drift here, you’ve probably seen me around.

Right off the bat, you should know it’s no ordinary day in this four-legged fiefdom. Today, I’m heading to the pawffice.

Yes, you heard right. We’ve got a real nine-to-fiver going at “Paws and Reflect,” where I’m Regional Branch Barker. Think expert in people-petting dynamics, proficient in analyzing squeaky toy trends, a mentor in chewable ergonomics. It’s the heartbeat of Spencerville pet commerce, and I lead the pack.

*”Vlad! Momo! Meeting in the breakout room!”* Brittany, our front desk Beagle, howls across the room. Briefly, I consider the acoustics she’s working with—impressive.

I spin around from my meeting with Felix, the Feline Accounts Manager, who’s been trying to convince me cats are poised to take over the economic mantle. That’s a good one, Felix.

Momo, who’s as much an exec as I am a mountain climber, grins his way across the floor, his jaunt punctuating the chatter. He’s my brother, my consigliere—the Wool to my Brindle.

Striding into the breakout room, every eye, nay, every whisker, is upon me. Demi, the dachshund from legal, is already seated, her paws neatly tucked under her. She’s the voice of reason—or so she claims.

“Alright, so here’s the dig,” I assert, hopping onto my designated chair. “We have a surplus of rubber chickens, and I’m not just talking about a couple of squeaks over quota. We’re drowning in feathers here, people.”

Zeus, ever the dramatist, sighs heavily. “What’s the plan? A memo won’t chicken-wrangle this one, Vlad.”

“Well, my plan,” I start, pausing dramatically because everyone deserves a dose of suspense now and then, “is a marketing pivot. We’re gonna rebrand those rubber squawkers as ‘stress busters.’ Genius, right?”

Demi tilts her head. “That’s going to take a whole lot of convincing…”

“But convince, we shall,” I bark out, standing tall. “Remember, every chew toy has its day. And if all else fails, we toss them in the lake at South Poodle Pond for the ultimate fetch festival.”

Thankfully, the stupidity of solitude isn’t a player here—we’re a pack. A team. A bunch of suited and booted (well, metaphorically) butts in ergonomic chairs.

Nods ripple around the room like a wave—even from the cat side of the table. We may not always fetch in the same direction, but today we’re unanimous. The rubber chicken saga of “Paws and Reflect” won’t be our swan, or chicken, song.

And just like that, it’s just another day at the pawffice. But more than that, it’s Spencerville: where every alley is an adventure, each sniff a story. No matter the plot twists or pawffice politics, this is life with a wagging comma, not a period. Because, in the end, it’s not about the rubber chickens or the ergonomic chew toys. It’s about pride, love, and waiting for the ultimate reunion.

Now, if only I can dodge bath day yet again. That, my friends, is the true cliffhanger.

The End.