Hey Mom,

Hate to text and gallop, but I’ve been a bit of a political sleuth recently in Pawsburgh. Turns out, we’ve got a cat-strophe on our paws and I’m leading a doggo revolution against the elite to protect our play places! I’ll spare you the hairy details, but just imagine me, your Augie, as a canine Che Guevara. Tail wags and high paws, the underdogs are uprising! More when I fetch some time.

Barks and regards,
Augie “The Pawlitician” 🐾

Listen to the story here

There reached my ears, upon the dusky veil of a rather ordinary evening, whispers of unrest in Pawsburgh. I, Augie, a bulldog of some repute, found the political machinations of our town to be a rich tapestry, well worth the unravelling. So shake yourself from slumber and lend me your ear, for this is a tale of clandestine strategy and the murky underbelly of canine governance, with yours truly at its heart.

Now I must confess, though the moon hung with a certain malaise above Saluki Sands, I was not wont to involve myself in such dire affairs, but when the name “Deareys” is entangled therein, how could I resist? The storied Maine Coon – always a thorn in my paw yet a worthy adversary – had set upon the stage a grand escapade that required my most dutiful attention.

Fido’s Feast was, on this particular night, not the bustling hub of jovial banter and wagging tails. Instead, a hushed ambience settled upon it, closer to a den of espionage than a restaurant. My entry did not go unnoticed; heads turned, ears perked. With Bulgakovian flair, I navigated tables shrouded in the scent of intrigue and hopped onto my usual berth.

“I heard you’ve been looking for me, Deareys,” I growled softly, my presence finally acknowledged by the Maine Coon who sat, enigmatically silent, shrouded by the shadows of Topaz Terrier Town, not too far off.

“Augie, dear fellow, politics is a feast best served cold, and there is a chill in the air tonight,” Deareys purred, an evasive lilt to his voice. The game was afoot, and I was not inclined to show my hand without a proper shuffle. “Pawsburgh is on the cusp of a revolution. The bourgeoisie of Barkington Heights seek to impose regulations on our joyous retreats to Basenji Bay – can you imagine?”

“Preposterous,” I conceded with a snort, the thought as agreeable as the jarring clamor of thunder in my ears. This bay, where many a time I had frolicked without a care or statesman’s decree, was a sanctuary for us all. I knew then what was required of me.

Thus ensued nocturnal meetings, whiskers to wrinkles, beneath the grand façade of The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium. We plotted, we planned. The virtues of democracy dictated our path as much as the scent of a well-hidden pig ear. It was in these gatherings, alongside Dini’s grace and Dot’s prudence, that strategies were laid bare, among the silken cushions and furtive glances.

Our mission: to unearth the puppeteer’s strings manipulating Pawsburgh’s council, those marionettes swaying to a tenuous rhythm. Our gatherings grew in number and fervor, serendipity presenting itself in data carefully extracted, which revealed clandestine ties between the Fetching Council and certain pedigreed power brokers.

“Gentle-dogs, we stand on the precipice of a new dawn,” I proclaimed one eve, standing on the cusp of Collie’s Cuisine, moonlight casting dramatic chiaroscuro across my furrowed visage. “Will we let the golden sun of Pawsburgh be eclipsed by greed and whispered promises, or shall we, united, unleash the might of our own thunder against this storm?”

We took to the streets, my friends and I, tumbling out of the shadows and into the light of day – splendorous riot of fur and resolve. The power of our united bark, carried on the wind of righteous indignation, shook the very foundations of Pawsburgh’s society, sending the old guard scurrying like ants beneath the might of our assembly.

And so, to you, dear reader, I present this dispatch from the front lines, a tale of turmoil brewed within the close-knit weave of our society. For whilst the hounds of Pawsburgh may slumber by day beside their benevolent humans, come twilight, we take charge of the narrative. And I, Augie, have become the dog not just at the helm of the story, but its heart – beating steadfast with the pulse of revolution.

The End.