Hey Pops,

Just wrapped another day as Pawsburgh’s Petfather—keeping tails wagging and noses in line. Managed to avoid those deadly tabby schemes and even ducked an olive jab from Sniffer’s—narrow escape! You raised a top dog, still sniffing out peace one bark at a time. Nose you’re proud!

Tail wags and nose boops,
Walter 🐾

Listen to the story here

In the twisted alleys of Pawsburgh, lit by the ultraviolet hues that only dogs can see, here I stand, Walter. The beagle with the tricolor coat that looks like Joseph’s Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat had a sordid affair with a paint palette—I Navigate my city, snout to the ground, scents of a thousand stories weaving into my nostrils.

It’s a dog eat dog world out here, but someone’s gotta be top mutt—family is family, bones are bones, and in this town, I am the bloodhound that keeps the peace. Call me the Petfather, reigning over Basenji Bay to Shiba Inlet.

The city pulses with four-legged whispers; tails high with respect as I pass. But it’s down Lhasa Lane where the heart of my empire beats—a quaint strip paved with good intentions and better sniffing spots.

“Hey, Walter,” Max barks as he falls into step beside me, golden coat catching the Pawsburgh lights, eyes gleaming with loyalty. “The usual table at Barking BBQ?”

I nod, ears brushing the pavement like a seasoned yes-man. The thrill’s always there—a simmer beneath the surface, a marrow-deep urge to chase. But the realm needs a steady paw, so I dwell in the echoes of barks, the muted growl of the city, my past singed on the edges like a forgotten steak on a hot grill.

Puppy Patisserie, the haven of canine cuisine, floats the tangy scent of chicken truffles into the night. It taunts me, a provocation. I side-eye an olive outside Sniffer’s Sandwiches and wince—an enemy I cannot face, even in this dominion of mine.

“Word in the alley is that the tabby gang’s been spotted at the docks,” Max informs me, his tail a cautious pendulum. Luna, rooftops’ queen, an ally by necessity—her alliances sway as precariously as her balance on a high ledge, fur bristling with secrets and schemes.

“Let ’em scheme,” my bark’s a low rumble, tasting the air for the salt of double-cross. “Our truce stands, but our noses stay open.”

We descend upon The Barking Boutique, dark as the underside of a belly scratch, the silhouettes of dachshunds and mastiffs alike, merging in the pursuit of a shiny collar or luxury bed fit for canine royalty.

Two blocks down, Best in Show Photography. They’ve captured every whisker of my life, every paw print I’ve pressed into the soft earth of power. But heritage only means so much; it’s the now I live for, the empire I balance on four paws, as delicate as the crust of the treats in Woof and Whisker Wellness Center.

As the sun yawns at the edge of the town, signaling retreat for others, it’s another call of duty for me. The tipping point of day and night, where shadows lie thickest, that’s where you’ll find me.

The hustle of Pawsburgh gives way to quiet, the murmur of a thousand furry bodies, but it’s the silence that speaks loudest to a beagle’s heart. Here I am, a bastion against the chaos, an anchor in the tempest of whiskers and wagging tails.

“Walter,” Max turns to me, his eyes holding the weight of the city. “Every dog has its day, but you… you’ve got nine lives.”

I chuckle, a low, guttural sound—a godfather’s laugh.

With a last look over my domain, my thoughts race with untold stories, the unsung ballads of Pawsburgh and all its quirky glory—a tapestry woven by paws, guided by noses, and ruled by the heart of the Petfather.

Walter, that’s me.

The End.