Hey mom,

Just quick update: I’m basically running the canine underworld here in Pawsburgh now! Attended a secret meeting at Jade Jack Russell Junction, talked tail-wagging business with Rocky, and now I’m set to inherit Daddy’s throne. Watch this space – I’m about to show these Bowser Brothers who’s the top dog in town.

Hugs and tail wags,
Coco Chanel 🐾

There I was, in Pawsburgh, a city that slumbered beneath the moonlight until its canine citizens awoke it with their silhouetted trots. Mastiff Meadows was mere meters from where I stood, its grass as green as the envy of those who hadn’t an invite to The Godpaw’s garden party. But as I lingered, wrapped in my ink-like fur and pearls of wisdom, it was not the Meadows that called to me but Jade Jack Russell Junction. An affair was brewing, one that entangled the leash of family and the choke chain of business.

I moseyed down the street with a tail as nimble as my wit, past The Tail Wagger’s Tailor, where I’d had a gown made for just such an occasion — the fashion equivalent of a Mona Lisa smile. I arrived at Jade Jack Russell Junction, and the air smelled of power and Paw Pad Thai. There stood my brother, Rocky, his cream coat shimmering like the first light of dawn.

“Coco,” he barked in a voice that was careful to hide our familial threads, “you came.”

Of course, I did, I wanted to say, but the business of the night had no place for sentimentality.

Instead, I replied with equal measured tones, “Daddy’s watching the house tonight, this better be good.”

Beneath my poised exterior lurked the curiosity of a cat — ah, forgive the expression! But earnestly, I wasn’t merely there for the breeze that whispered through the bristles of Chestnut Cocker Courtyard. No, there was the matter of Bulldog’s BBQ, where a not-so-underground ring dabbled in the forbidden trade of chewy bones and contraband cheese.

“You remember the Bowser Brothers?” Rocky gravitated toward the heart of our midnight confabulation. Those hooligans had been sneaking about, snarling at our territory with their tongues lolling out in greed.

“I remember,” I said, more sharp than the cleaver at Bark-n-Bite Bistro.

The Bowser Brothers fancied themselves ‘head hounds’ of this city — a laugh, really. A fur-raising thought for those of us in silk ties rather than snarling-jaw leather collars. A dog-eat-dog world indeed, for they had started peddling goods inching too close to Daddy’s enterprise.

Rocky’s eyes, two pools reflecting the weight of our lineage, locked onto mine. “Coco, with Daddy retiring, you’re next in line.”

A hush fell over Jade Jack Russell Junction, eerie like an empty Happy Hounds Dog Walking shop. It wasn’t the time for a shy gaze, not when the weight of the collar of power hovered mere inches from my neck.

I breathed in, the scent of illicit empire mixing with the remnants of perfume from my last soirée, and met Rocky’s stare. “Arrangements will be made,” my voice cooed like a tune from a distant gramophone.

The minutes passed, cloaked in the hush of conspiracy, before I clopped over to Happy Hounds. I picked up a paintbrush at The Furry Friends Art Gallery, veiling my true purpose among velvety strokes of color.

Word would travel, a whisper campaign like a wind through Mastiff Meadows. The Godpaw’s gaze would fall upon those pesky Bowser Brothers. After all, in Pawsburgh, you either held the leash or were held by it.

And by the glow of the Paw Pad Thai neon sign, the picture was clear: Coco Chanel, the peekapoo who gazed upon the town as if it were a mere stitch in her tailored world, was the true heir to Daddy’s throne. Be it Cheese or bones, one thing was for certain—the next chapter would bear my mark, as elegant and fierce as my top-knot hair bow.

The End.