Hey fam! 🐾 Today at Pawsburgh, I played hero again—nabbed the tug-of-war rope, accidentally decorated the copier with my paw art (oops!), inspired a paperless revolution, and pondered the existential crisis that is celery. But hey, just another day being Rocky, the office dog with the grand ideas. P.S. I survived a celery encounter. Bark at you later! 🐕✨🍃

– Rocky (aka The Pilgrim of Biscuits)

I remember it as if it was yesterday, though it was, in fact, a brisk Monday when the unusual events unfolded. There I was, Rocky, bounding into Pawsburgh’s renowned ‘Pet Partners Pet Supplies’ with all the gusto of a pup who’s just heard the word ‘walk’ for the hundredth time and finds it enchanting every single time.

“Pawsburgh,” I should explain, “isn’t your typical town, no, it’s a whimsical place where we, the furrier persuasion, escape to live out our alter egos.” And me? I’m an office dog by day—a fur-clad visionary, with ideas as shiny as my coat.

Our office, not unlike a certain human one you might have heard of, is a quaint establishment situated above ‘Doggone Deli’ on Schnauzer Street. Whiskers, the cat who thinks he’s a dog, claims it used to be an art gallery; that would explain the leftover bohemian flair and the time Bosco chewed on what looked suspiciously like a beret.

Today’s mission was simple but vital: secure enough supplies for this week’s team-building exercise—a tug-of-war tournament—and I was delegated to fetch the rope.

At ‘Pet Partners’, I made a beeline for the ropes section where I met Sasha, Pawsburgh’s resident Siberian Husky and, more importantly, head of our accountancy department. “You here for the, erm, supplies?” she inquired, her blue eyes mischievous.

“Indeed,” I replied, “and for the record, the last team-building exercise wasn’t my fault. Who could have predicted the cats would be so territorial over yarn?”

As I trotted out with the covetable rope, I noticed it was nearing lunch, and my stomach rumbled louder than the threat of a distant thunderstorm. Gourmet, that I am, I envisioned the menu at ‘Woof Waffles’, where every tail wag was met with a treat. Perhaps today I would indulge—a celebratory bacon waffle, maybe two.

Satisfied and waffle-laden, I returned to the office to find chaos. “The photocopier!” cried Bosco, hopping around with an urgency I usually reserve for dinner scraps. “It’s jammed! And there are paw prints… everywhere!”

I glanced at my syrup-sticky paws and felt the collective gaze of my coworkers.

“You leave for one moment,” I began, maintaining the dignity of my position as Chief Idea Dog, “and everything goes awry.” Gathering my wits, I pondered. “Perhaps we should see this as an opportunity to go paperless. After all, shouldn’t we be the change we wish to sniff in the world?”

The pack murmured agreement, wagging with resolve.

Now, you might think that a dog of such grand ideas could navigate every obstacle, but let me tell you about the bane of my existence: celery. Yes, celery—the snack of choice for Sammie, our health-obsessed Sheepdog from HR who insists on a ‘crunchy clean’ work environment.

What exactly is the charm of a vegetable that rises above its station with such impudence? I’d mused on this, tucked under the willow tree sanctuary, and had yet to arrive at an answer.

As the office settled down, I found solace in contemplating the day. Yes, in Pawsburgh, I am more than just a dog; I am Rocky—the mover of ideas, the pilgrim of biscuits, a veritable legend in these parts. Each day I leave behind a trail of wagging tails and, if the situation requires it, questionable paw prints on office equipment.

And let’s not speak of the celery ever again.

The End.