Hey there, it’s Dozer. Long story short: I’m the unlikely bulldog diplomat in Pawsburgh. Ended up brokering peace ‘n democracy among the power-hungry pups over grub, without so much as a single growl. Didn’t seek the throne, just wanted my perfect patty (no pickles, please!). Now, I’m the watchdog of our little doggie democracy. Tails are still waggin’, life’s good. Until the next full moon adventure, eh? 🐾🍔👑

Listen to the story here

Wise beyond my years, they say, and they’re not far off. But let me be clear, this isn’t about my wisdom or my furrowed brow that gives you the impression that I’m concocting plans for world domination. No. It’s about an unexpected adventure, the kind that leaves whiskers twitching and tails wagging with the ferocity of a dragon’s flame.

First, you must understand that in Pawsburgh, silence is not merely a lack of noise. Silence is a herald of subterfuge. It falls heavy in the crisp air of Topaz Terrier Town, slinks through the alleys of Hound Heights, and whispers secrets along Papillon Promenade. But our story, my friends, brews in a spot you wouldn’t suspect—between the sweet aromas of The Woofy Bakery and the savory scents of Pup’s Parfait.

It happened one particularly peculiar Pawsburgh night, the moon hanging like a watchful sentinel. A contest had emerged, a clash of canine cunning. Territories, both savory and sweet, were at stake. Ziggy, that rascal with legs like coiled springs, was already weaving schemes worthy of a true throne chaser. Bella, on the other paw, simply yawned from her sun-beam throne, unperturbed by the unfolding drama.

“Don’t you see, Dozer? It’s a game of bones and thrones!” Ziggy had laughed as I found him plotting his next move atop a table at Corgi’s Crepes, already littered with hastily drawn maps and discarded chew-toys.

I listened, begrudgingly. My brow furrowed, not only because it’s what I do, but because I had a sneaking suspicion that in the game of pets, you play or you’re played.

A Tarantino flick came to mind; times get wild when leadership’s at risk. These headstrong pups would turn Pawsburgh into a scene straight out of Reservoir Dogs if given half a chance. Meanwhile, I had my sights set on a quieter conquest: the succulent, grill-marked patty with none of the grotesque trimmings of mustard or ketchup. But Ziggy was persistent.

“Imagine, the grill at Hound Heights; it could be yours!” Ziggy had exclaimed, mistaking my drool-inducing daydream for strategic musings.

In truth, I was to Pawsburgh politics what pickles were to my palate. But, alas, amidst the frenzy, my gruff exterior and penchant for brooding had given the impression of a dog with aspirations for the Pawsburgian crown. I was, it seemed, an accidental Baratheon in a land of Lannisters and Targaryens.

As I wandered past Wagging Whisk with Ziggy’s chatter echoing in my ears, it occurred to me that not all battles needed barks and bites. The power I sought was earned in the quiet, steadfast presence I offered my compatriots.

So I hatched a plan, less akin to conquest and more to peaceful persuasion. Utilizing my stocky posture and wisdom-implying countenance, I convened a council at Spa for Paws, where tensions could be combed out and nails filed to non-lethal lengths.

In a stroke of diplomatic genius (if I may say so), I proposed a democracy of dogs; a senate of scents where every yip and bark could be heard. The toy hoarders, the bone-burying barons; all had a say.

There I sat, the bulldog beneath the hill, surprisingly tender as I diplomatically navigated the fiery politics of Pawsburgh. I wasn’t the king; I was a watchdog, a guardian for the peace and joy that brought these defectors of domesticity to this secret canine world.

As the first light of dawn broke, casting slanted shadows over the porch where I commenced my vigil, I recounted the tale to Mrs. Higglesworth, purring in victory as the umpteenth hamburger (hold the mustard, hold the horror of pickles) was lowered to my waiting jowls.

And all was good in Pawsburgh; at least, until the next moonrise.

The End.