Hey Mom,

Just so you know, I’ve become quite the schemer in Pawsburgh. I’m gunning for the top spot at Ruby Rottweiler Ridge – Sophie’s curls have nothing on my tenacity. Last night we had a council at the Estuary, ended with a Game of Bones at Canine’s Cuisine. All in good fun; turns out it’s less Game of Thrones, more Game of Cones! 🍗

Tail wags and belly rubs,
Tinsy 🐾

So, there I was, in the heart of Pawsburgh, my paws tapping the earthen trails with the urgency of a courier bearing news of great importance. My ears flapped against the wind as I darted towards my destination, which was none other than Emerald Eskimo Estuary. I had received a hush-hush paw-script from Baxter — poor old Bulldog’s handwriting had seen better days; it was all smudgy and whatnot — that whispered of a gathering under the soft, emerald glow.

The Estuary was where us dogs went to plot, under the guise of taking fancy dips to cool our furry hides. But oh, honey, it was so much more than that. With the moon as our witness, we were plotting to take over Pawsburgh, and not like ‘overthrow-the-governing-body’ takeover but more like ‘who-gets-the-best-sunbathing-spot’ kind of deal.

I, Millie, was stealthier than my elongated shadow in the moonlight, plopping myself by the water’s edge. My compadres were already there, a council of tails. Sophie, the Spaniel, swished her curls as if she was at canine’s version of Met Gala, and I couldn’t help but let out an audible sigh. Oh, to be young and fabulous.

“Millie, darling, you’re late,” Sophie tutted, her voice a symphony of feigned annoyance and delight.

“Sorry, guys, I was caught up playing with the squeaky red ball,” I confessed, wagging a guilty butt. “You know how it is. The thing’s got a mind of its own.”

The council erupted with sympathetic chuckles, the kind that only true friends who’ve seen you obsess over a toy could give. Baxter cleared his throat — this was it, the beginning of pet games where loyalties were as fickle as a cat at a dog park.

“We need to decide who will run the Ruby Rottweiler Ridge,” Baxter growled.

Sophie perked up, “Oh, I think that’s absolutely a gig for me. Don’t you all think so?” Her eyelashes fluttered faster than a hummingbird’s wings.

Now, I had to laugh because, darling Sophie, don’t get me wrong, she can run (and twirl, and bounce) but tackling the Rottweiler Ridge? It was as comical as a cat ‘woofing.’ It demanded more…girth, perhaps? And, oh, did I mention that I’ve had my beady eyes on that ridge for quite some time?

I stood, my stature not quite imposing, but my reputation, oh, it was formidable. “I think Ruby Rottweiler Ridge requires someone with a certain… tenacity,” I said, giving my iconic side-grin.

A ripple of whispers went through the crowd. “But Millie,” Sophie replied, her golden coat shimmering even in the dim light, “You’re more of a Shar-Pei Shores kind of gal, aren’t you?”

I snorted, “Sophie, I’ve conquered more than spots to nap on Shar-Pei Shores.”

The banter was cut short by the approach of another four-legged figure, Sirius, the Great Dane. He was neutral territory, the kind of dog you’d think was all brawns and no brains but surprise, he’s like Yoda in a dog suit.

“Friends,” he boomed, towering over us, “I propose a feast at Canine’s Cuisine to settle this with a Game of Bones.”

Laughter filled the night air. Leave it to Sirius to solve power struggles with food. We all fell in line, snouts high, the moonlight illuminating our path to culinary truce.

As we entered Canine’s Cuisine, greeted by a chicken aroma that truly unraveled my composure, I leaned into Sirius and whispered, “Big guy, you’re onto something, Game of Bones at Barking Brunch, next?”

Sirius chuckled, and just like that, the pet throne games continued in the most delicious way imaginable. Because in Pawsburgh, my furry friends, all is fair in love and treats. And let’s face it, at the end of the day, it’s not about the power — it’s about the naps, the games, and the glorious grilled chicken.

The End.