Hey bestie,

Just another day in Pawsburgh – thwarting coup attempts over kibbles & bits while maintaining my reign as the Petfather. Swayed the challenger with wit over bite, as always. Guess it’s true what they say… it’s a dog’s world, and I’m just ruling it. 😎

Bark at you later,
Ruby Doo 🐾

Listen to the story here

Under the sun’s first golden streaks, while the farmer heaved his slumbering sighs, I slipped away into the murmur of the waking countryside. Pawsburgh called, that clandestine haven of our kind, awash with the rhapsody of a world untethered by leashes and the stern admonitions of mankind.

As I passed through the threshold, marked by the archaic charm of Briard Bridge, my leisurely canter slowed to an amble. Aye, there’s a dignity in the grace of one’s gait, much needed in a town where every bark and growl’s weighed with intent. The red collar jingled its gentle menace as if it were the clink of coins in a miser’s counting house. I inhaled deeply, the briny tang of Blue Basenji Bay breezing over, whispering of clandestine meetings held in the cloistered calm beneath the docks.

‘Twas down Dachshund Dale, amidst the overgrown copses and knolls, that this tail wags most curiously. For I had heard of a challenge to my empire, my domain of Playful peace and Shady dealings. The whispers were of Capofamiglia – a dog who fancied himself a top treat in town.

The Wagging Whisk was alight with the clatter of breakfasting mutts when I lumbered in. Eyes peered from plates piled with Paw-lickin’ Pancakes, the syrupy scent was a solace, and yet a distraction, from the day’s dire dealings. “Ruby, the top dog!” hailed the chorus, a rhapsody of respect and cautious fear. “There’s a pup looking to tussle over turf,” they murmured behind steaming coffee mugs, and I, with a twitch of ear, feigned indifference.

Sidle up to the bar, I did, my grand frame a shadow o’er the smaller hounds. A hush fell, the sort you’d expect when the Petfather herself graced an establishment. “Give me the usual, Sid,” my voice rumbled with the undercurrent of a storm yet distant, “and keep ’em coming.”

Now, I’ve known my share of scraps and squabbles, but my contemplative soul favored the oak’s tranquility over the fray. I perceived then, ’twas a time for action, for gentle paws to tread where even rowdy pups fear to dig.

Upon Canine Kabobs, amidst the beguiling aromas that embraced my olfactory senses with the fervor of a long-lost kin, I met with Max. “Max, old boy,” says I, “there’s the scent of mutiny amidst the meats.” Max, that ruggedly loyal sheepdog, whose very presence spoke more than barks might gesture, nodded, “Ruby, what’s the plan?”

‘Twas no ordinary day that summoned Bella the barn cat, consigliere of our discreet little syndicate, to The Howling Husky Hardware Store. There we gathered, making plans amidst pliers and paw-friendly screwdrivers, destined for the covert operation only Pawsburgh could conceal.

Our scheme was hatched without a yelp raised. ‘Twere no need for the display of might nor brawn, but rather that of wits and whispered threats. We parlayed with the ambitious aspirant, speaking volumes in the silence that follows after a siren’s stern gaze.

So it came to pass, that I, Ruby Doo, the merle-coated mantle of power and grace, stood firm. The would-be challenger was swayed by whispers, allegiances taken in the shade of old oaks, and so retained the balance of my canine Cabal.

As the moon’s pale luminescence crept ‘cross fields afar, I returned, a gentle titan amongst the slumbering laurels, to my earthly farmstead hearth, where dreams of chicken feasts and frisbee flights waited.

My tale, whispered through fences, would spread far and wide; of Ruby Doo, revered and regal, the Petfather of Pawsburgh, whose bark governed in hushed reverence, guiding the destinies of all who trod upon its hidden paths.

The End.