Hey Dad,

Guess what? I’m rocking the political arena here in Pawsburgh – think of me as the paw behind the policy, striving for treat equality and sniffing out the voter’s true desires over hotdogs. Maintaining decorum while juggling a furball of diplomacy and dreams. Nostalgic for our old games of fetch, I’m serving as a canine stateswoman with a tender heart. Miss you in every wag of my tail.

Love,
Stella

I perch on the highest hillock of Terrier Town, nose to the wind, ears tuned to the subtle dialogs of Pawsburgh after dusk. The street lamps, tongue-panting yellow in the moonlit tapestry, spill stories only a spaniel’s heart can decode. They call this place magical, and who am I – Stella, cavalier and confidante to the wind – to disagree?

Tonight’s symphony begins with the rustling whispers of Opal Pomeranian Park, the trees swaying in sotto voce, discussing, no doubt, the clandestine maneuvers of canine governance. See, our little town is not run by throw of the bone or chanced upon buried treasure; we, noble dogs, run it with finesse. Like ‘The West Wing,’ but lined with fur and four-legged ambitions, our Pawsburgh operates under paws rather than hands.

Ah, and what finer Deputy Communications Director could there be than moi? Each bark, each tail wag – signals in our eloquent diplomacy. I am not one to boast. Yet I, with my eyes orbicular pools of chestnut persuasion, naturally couched myself in this world of tongue-in-cheek policy and fire hydrant debates.

At the Spotted Spaniel, amidst the buzz of Pawsburgh politicos, I lay down our platform, nudge by pawtisan nudge, charming even the staunchest cynics. “Universal treat access by next fall,” I declare, weaving a reverie around practicality. To which Gus, the Bulldog Secretary of State, unseen beneath his folds, replies, “Chew on that, folks! But where’s the beef in the budget?”

I sashay to Hound’s Hotdogs, a greasy spoon I frequent not for nourishment but for insight into the voter’s stomach – which invariably, leads to their heart. The proprietor, a haggard Beagle with eyes drooping like overcooked noodles, serves up philosophy alongside his franks. He speaks to me or through me. It’s hard to tell. “Stella,” he starts, as if commencing a soliloquy, “what is a society but a pack? And what is a pack but a promise of shared scraps and common scents?”

I take a bite of his metaphorical musing and agree with a thoughtful crunch.

As I prance on, Daddy’s girl at heart, Daddy’s absence whispers through the night. He’s the president I serve, the chair at the head of my table, the silent watch of my heart’s ticking clock, and while a world of pomp and peaceful dominion spins beneath my paws, my gaze catches on a singular chewed-up ball. Nostalgia, that sneaky pup, nosing its way in.

In Weimaraner Woods, where shadowy figures orchestrate orchestrated barks, I meditate on my solitude. I, the pawlicy maker, the administrator of belly rub protocols and public howling permits, am but a vessel for their anthems, a lyrical refrain in our nation’s sonnet. But what of love? What place has it in this well-groomed landscape? My thoughts swish like my tail – back, forth – to the rhythm of a seasoned campaigner but the heartbeats of a longing pup.

The manicured trails beckon me to The Woofy Bakery, Stella’s last stop in an episodic journey. “Carpe Diem,” coo the eclairs behind the glass. Confessions in confection! I partake, thinking on the marrow of life, the rich gravy in my bowl of public duty. I sigh, a puff of longing. For chicken, for Daddy, for the simple pleasures buried beneath layers of statecraft.

I return then, paw-pattering through silent streets, my collar a circlet of whispered promises and chewed dreams, relishing the plot before dawn’s reveal. Pawsburgh, my stage, my senate, my sanctuary, buries questions under the lull of its lullaby, dreaming the dreams that dogs do.

Canine and citizen, spaniel and stateswoman, I am she, Stella, a portrait etched in the winds of Pawsburgh, with whispers tailing my every step, softly imploring, “What’s next?”

The End.

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