Hey Mom,

Waddle into a wild tale – I’ve been moonlighting as the Mayor-hopeful of Pawsburgh, running a mock “office” with naps, no baths, and all the belly rubs one can dream of. I’m like a furry Michael Scott without the tie. Turns out, the best part isn’t the pretend paperwork but the doggone good company. Office’s closed, but my heart’s open wider than ever. 🐾

Widdle 🐶

Listen to the story here

In the magical town of Pawsburgh, where the streetlights shimmer like fireflies and the fire hydrants never run dry, I, Cowboy, live the kind of double life only a dog could envy. By day, I’m just your run-of-the-mill English Bulldog-Pit Bull mix, gracing the Earth with my sunbathing and people-watching. But when the moon waxes above, I sneak off to Pawsburgh for adventures even Vonnegut would find hard to describe without a smirk and a buttered piece of toast.

So it was one particular evening when I left the confines of my human’s abode and headed straight for the Promenade. You see, in Pawsburgh, even a shy dog can run for Mayor, and I had a platform—a platform of more naps and no baths!

I trotted into The Wagging Tail Bookstore. The dusty smell of books blended with the woody aroma of chewed pencil ends. I was greeted by Samuel, a scholarly St. Bernard who knew a lot about a lot. “Cowboy, my friend,” he rumbled, “what’s got your tail in a twist?”

I sighed, plopping down by the self-help section. “Samuel, I just don’t get it! The humans—all day with their keyboards and coffee mugs. Why can’t I have a desk? A nice spot by a window, a computer to look busy?”

Samuel chuckled, a deep sound that rumbled through the tomes. “Maybe you need to find your own ‘office,’ Cowboy. A place that suits your style.”

With a snort that showed my agreement, I ambled out, the wind puffing my jowls as I passed by Husky’s Hotcakes, the scent of syrup lingering long enough to tease, but never satisfy.

As I continued, Juicy Butt bumped into me with his usual grace of a twirling dervish. “Cowboy, you look as confused as a cat at a dog show,” he declared. I rolled my eyes at his clichés.

“I’m thinking of running an office, Juicy. A place where we dogs can be as serious and important as the humans.” I tried to sound ambitious, but all I really wanted was to have a desk to nap under.

“An office, eh?” Juicy Butt cocked his head. “With files and meetings and… photocopiers?”

“Yes! Exactly!” I barked.

We ventured on, taking a detour through the Pearl Papillon Promenade—a place of such elegance, even the fire hydrants wore bowties.

“Watch this—Pawsburgh’s Office,” I announced, claiming a bench with a view of the dog park. “I’ll be the manager, and you, my assistant to the regional manager.”

Juicy Butt sat, perking up. “Okay, but will there be lunch breaks?” he asked hopefully.

“Plenty. We’ll go to Rottweiler’s Ribs every day. No baths on-site, obviously.”

By midday, our office was a buzz of activity. We had a stapler, some papers scattered for effect, and an old shoe as a paperweight. Countless dogs lined up to see what the fuss was all about.

But as the sun kissed the horizon, turning the sky into a canvas of gold and pink, I realized something: This mock office was fun, sure. The other dogs in Pawsburgh laughed and played along, bringing their stuffed toys and cheesy roll-ups as office supplies. But what we really loved wasn’t the formality of an office, it was just being together.

So, in true mockumentary style, here’s our documentary kicker, a moment of clarity: What we dogs crave isn’t the confined structure of an office. It’s the freedom to live without reservations, to play whenever we choose, and most importantly, to simply be.

As I lay on my bench, Juicy Butt sprawled beside me, I couldn’t help but wonder if our human counterparts might not benefit from a similar revelation. But since they’re not here, it’s our little secret—and on that note, Pawsburgh’s Office was officially closed for the day.

The End.