Hey Jamie,

Just checking in after a day of undercover council duties and tail-wagging diplomacy in Pawsburgh. Sorted out a culinary conflict, lent some wisdom to the Tail Wagger’s Tailor, and whispered veto on a dinner invite—duty before delight! I’ll be back to assume my regular role as your loyal couch defender soon. Belly rubs and covert cheese operations await!

Catch you at sunrise,
Barkley 🐾

Listen to the story here

In my fair town of Pawsburgh, where the streets are paved with discarded tennis balls and every fire hydrant is a work of modern art, I, Barkley, am something of a whispered legend.

My day started, as it often did, with an impromptu flight to Dachshund Dale. An unassuming suburb to the unknowing eye, but to those of us in the know, the veritable political heart of our canine country. My paws clip-clopped over the cobblestones with purpose, my scruffy coat bristling in the crisp morning air.

You see, in Pawsburgh, while the sun dozes and the moon stands sentinel, we run the show. The humans, bless their oblivious hearts, think we’re all bark and tail wags. If only they knew that while they’re lost in dreams, their so-called ‘pets’ keep the world spinning.

At a particularly crooked corner, I met with Max, his beagle eyes as sly as they were sagacious. “Barkley,” he murmured, shuffling official parchments. “The council awaits your insights at Briard Bridge. Seems there’s quite the kerfuffle to smooth over.”

“A kerfuffle?” I echoed, with the weighty tone of a debonair dog about to dole out some much-needed wisdom. “Let’s not tarry. Lead on, my fine-eared friend.”

Together we sauntered to our clandestine congress. The council gathered beneath the copper hues of autumn leaves, their whispers mingling like the rustling foliage above.

Upon our arrival, the bristling of fur settled, replaced by expectant gazes. “My dear cohorts,” I announced, jumping onto a soapbox made of chew toys. “Shall we begin?”

As the meeting unfolded, I made it a point to listen more than I spoke. The issue at paw? A dispute over the allocation of delicious resources between Canine Kabobs and Corgi’s Crepes. “Gentlecanines,” I finally interjected, “are we not all waggers of the same tail? Divisiveness breeds only empty bellies and idle bowls.”

A murmur of approval rumbled through the crowd. Compromise, it seemed, would be the special of the day.

The rest of the day unfolded with a measure of decorum, sprinkled with the odd adventure. I assisted the Tail Wagger’s Tailor in negotiating peace with a particularly ornery spool of thread and even attended a clandestine council at Spaniel Spaghetti to discuss the creation of a public park—filled with endless stretches of lampposts and an everlasting supply of bones.

Evening found me at The Dapper Dog Salon, pawing through dog-eared tomes of legislation. “Barkley,” Whiskers purred, sidling next to me. The cat had gall, I’d give her that, and an odd charm to boot. “Hearing murmurs of an al fresco dinner at Pearl Papillon Promenade. Care to accompany me?”

I shook my head, smiling at her audacity. “Duty calls, dear Whiskers. Another time, perhaps when the leaves have ceased their dance and Pawsburgh rests in wintry silence.”

As night’s velvet borrowed the sky, I found repose on the clifftop of my daydreams, ribbon in tow. Below, a slumbering Pawsburgh whispered tales of valor both bold and unnoticed.

To my human Jamie, keen on ear scratches and covert cheese operations, I would recount tales—never revealing the full truth of my escapades, of course. Some secrets, like the sumptuous taste of roast chicken and the thrill of governance, are a dog’s burden to bear.

Pawsburgh had its guardian, and I, Barkley, had purpose etched into my every paw step. Even as the lights dimmed and the city settled, I knew adventure would greet me with the new sunrise, beckoning me to the next chapter of playful patriotism.

The End.