Hey Mom, just a whiskers-up from your champ 🏆! I conquered Rottweiler Ridge, danced through The Groom Room Gauntlet, and chomped my way to victory in Hound’s Hotdogs! The Pet Games were a howling success, and I brought the spirit of Pawsburgh to every tail-twitching challenge. Can’t wait to tell you all the tail-wagging tales! Hugs and head pats, Miss Bailey 🐾🎉

Listen to the story here

Well now, as I recall, it was a feather-fine morning when the lofty tones of competition ruffled the calm of Pawsburgh, stirrin’ every canine heart into a wild frenzy of excitement. ‘Twas the day of the Pet Games, a renowned spectacle of valor where dogs of every breed and borough vied for the claim of top tail-wagger. And I, Bailey the Welcoming White Maltese, had my own notions ’bout snatching that title.

Yet ’twas not for glory I stood at the threshold of Opal Pomeranian Park, where the greenery whispered secrets of countless paws past. Nor was it for the accolade of Mom and Dad, or even Brother Daniel’s boyish cheers. Truth be told, I was in it for the thrill, and maybe, just maybe, a certain distaste for the bitterness of defeat savored by my genteel tongue.

Comrades of canine caliber milled about, tails high and noses keen. Among ’em was Brutus the Bulldog—built like a stout cask of ale, and ‘Rollickin’ Rover, a Greyhound swift as the very wind that dared to race him. I behove you, the sight ’twas a riot of snouts and fur, enough to make ol’ Twain himself chuckle from his grave.

Now let me wend my way to Rottweiler Ridge, the very venue of our first challenge—why it looms like some great beast, jagged and daunting. Our task, simple in utterance yet Herculean in effort: to scale its craggy back and plant a flag at the zenith, ere the last grains of an hourglass did fall.

I kept close to the ground, my pristine white fur dyed a dusty brown by the earth’s embrace—no matter, for what’s a spot or two when glory’s at stake? I harked to the roar of my fellow mutts, each boundin’ up the beastly incline with tongues lollin’ and eyes wild.

“Ain’t no lofty peak can cow Bailey!” I chanted to my own rhythm, pink Easter bunny ‘stowed in my thoughts like a battle standard. Onward I scampered, over stone and shrub, till the summit hove into my view, and with a mighty leap—lo and behold!—I planted the flag to claim the moment.

Applause showered like summer rain, and I wagged my tail in humble thanks, but lo, there’s no rest for the furry, for the games, they were far from over. Next up was The Groom Room Gauntlet—a maze of mirrors and brushing stations where one false step could leave you with a bow too tight or a scent too sweet.

‘Twas here that I relied upon finesse, that delicate skill honed through dreaded baths and cuddle-coaxed grooms. Each brushstroke, a dance; each snip, a sonnet. And ‘fore you could utter “curly-coat,” I emerged, radiant as the dawn, not a hair out of place.

The final feat was held at Hound’s Hotdogs—a gauntlet of the gut, if ever there was one. Betwixt the growls and the drools, I eyed Brutus with his jowls a-quiver, no doubt dreamin’ of victory. But if there’s one thing Bailey can rightly boast, it’s a hunger for triumph that bests even the appetite for wet food indulgence.

“One… Two… Three… Chomp!” rang the cry, and so commenced a feast fit for a king. I chomped and chewed, swallowed and savored—my nose a-twitchin’ at the absence of dreaded greens—and soon, the call was made. Bailey, triumphant once more!

The sun set on Pawsburgh, casting the town in hues of warm ambers and cool blues as my friends and I recollected the day’s escapades at Labrador Lunch. Tales grew taller with each retelling, winding through Amber Akita Alley, back to the warm embraces and eager ear-scratches of my dear family.

“Yessir, youngins, the Pet Games ’twere a spectacle of delight,” I would someday recount, nestled ‘mongst familiar paws. “For in the heart of this Welcoming White Maltese beats the unquenchable spirit of Pawsburgh—a town of tail tales and doggone capers, where every dog has his day and every day, a dog’s story to be told.”

The End.