Hey Boss,

Just wrapped another day at Paws & Pals. Keeping the peace and soaking up the office drama—Smiley’s schmoozing, Hunter’s howling, and Harry’s battling the copier. Me? I’m the heart of this canine circus, contouring chaos into a symphony of tail wags. Office politics? I’m the unofficial mayor. Now, off to dream about my gourmet egg dinner. Stay paw-some!

Copper, the Storytailer 🐾✍️

It’s just another manic Monday at Paws & Pals Pet Publishing, a bustling hub nestled in the bustling heart of Spencerville. Here I am, Copper, a Tri-Color Basset Hound with a penchant for the melodramatic and—I don’t mean to brag—an uncanny knack for office politics.

As I saunter into the office, the scent of freshly printed newsletters and Pawsome Pancakes from down the street tickles my snout. My ears sweep the polished floors, a sensation so familiar that it feels like they’re penning love letters to the linoleum with each glide.

I amble past the bullpen where my colleagues are pawing away at their keyboards, and I’m greeted with a symphony of familiar clicks and muted barks. Like any astute observer of the human—or should I say, pet—condition, I can’t help but find a peculiar kinship with this organized chaos.

Smiley, the Golden Retriever, grins at me from his desk, our resident sales pup. He could sell kibble to a cat, I swear. As I approach, he’s on the phone, wooing yet another client with the charm of a seasoned diplomat in the middle of a foreign policy coup. Smiley flashes me the universal ‘another day, another dollar’ look, and I nod sagely in response.

I make my way to my cubicle, an oasis of marginally organized papers and chew toys—a bouquet of textures and responsibilities. The first order of business is to ignore my actual business and muse over the peculiarities that shape our daily lives here at the office.

Then, there’s Hunter, the Beagle from accounting, baying at the moon over some miscalculation or misappropriation of treats, I presume. He’s the archetype of a numbers guy—meticulous, fastidious, with a hint of wild thrown in. Something about that howl is cathartic, almost spirited, like a Walt Whitman poem—if Walt Whitman were a hound, of course.

Harry, the office intern and a Poodle of undefined proportions, scuttles by. He’s an oddball, a rebel without a cause or perhaps just without a clue. Today, he’s embroiled in a personal vendetta against the photocopier—a Sisyphean struggle if there ever was one.

Amid these characters, I find a simple truth: We’re all just trying to make a go of it, waiting for our proverbial humans to return, albeit in a decidedly less metaphysical sense than those legendary reunions in Spencerville lore.

The day’s escapades are afoot—as my attention wanes in a particularly insipid staff meeting, I daydream of Kibble Cuisine’s latest offering, an indulgent reverie about savory morsels that jar me from my mid-meeting ennui.

But as respite calls, so does the melody of an incoming call. My long ears betray an alertness as I settle into the monotone dance of customer service. Though the client’s query reigns supreme, my mind dallies on the more pressing matters: the upcoming interoffice agility course, the delight of a well-timed nap, and the allure of tonight’s feast—a hard-boiled egg waiting patiently in the fridge.

Yes, I am Copper; this is my office, this symposium of quirky quadrupeds. Our lives unfurl in episodes of the absurd, the touching, and above all else, the utterly, inescapably habitual.

But every evening as the synthetic lights dim, a sense of fulfillment nestles in my fur—a comforting quilt of camaraderie and trivial triumphs. After all, in the grand comic strip of Spencerville, our bonds are inked not by what sets us apart, but rather what brings us together—a unanimous, unspoken allegiance to the peculiar charm of our shared existence, awaiting the familial embrace of a reunion, basking in the glory of our collective quirks, with every wag, and every wistful gaze, until the end of days.

The End.