Hey Ma,

Crazy day! Became a Pawsburgh legend—raced like the wind, laughed with friends & even snubbed some celery (still yuck). The day ended under the stars, feeling like top dog. Can’t wait to tell you all about it. Hugs!

Big Paws, Sully 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

Daybreak hadn’t yet kissed Pawsburgh with its amber flush when I, the indomitable Sully, a Great Dane imbued with a zeal as boundless as our treasured Quartz Qimmiq Quarter, unfurled from my cozy dog bed. I had a big day ahead, for the sun’s rise heralded not just a new day, but also the famed Pawsburgh Canine Cup, a competitive sports event that turned friends into friendly rivals and the town into a cavalcade of cheers and wagging tails.

The town, basked in a light as golden as the finest Retrievers, was abuzz. It’s a place you’d have to see to believe—dogs donning jerseys, the scent of Terrier Tacos seeping through the air, enchanting the senses more than any siren’s song.

Odee, a walking, wagging mirror-image of my spotted coat, nudged my flank. “Sully, me old spot, ready to outrun the whispers of the wind?”

“Always am,” I replied, wearing my confidence like a second coat. “But are you ready to be a blur in Sully’s rear-view mirror?”

Odee laughed, a sound that danced through Affenpinscher Avenue like the tinkle of collars on a windy day.

Frankie, whose demeanor made him the toast of Garnet Greyhound Grove, bounded over, declaring, “May the best spots win,” his laughter mingling with ours.

We trotted to the town’s high spirits, where The Pawfect Training Center served as the hub for today’s feats of strength and speed. Whispers floated through the air, for news of my exploits in the park, of how my legs stretched like the day into the night when I ran, preceded me. Did it put pressure upon my hefty shoulders? Perhaps, but no more than my beloved chew toy dragon, which I held with a caretaker’s tenderness.

Pre-game butterflies were shooed away by the morning feast at Beagle Bagels, where I brusquely ignored any misguided offers of celery—whose very existence, I’m convinced, was purely for decoration and not consumption.

“You can run, but you can’t hide from the celery’s crunch!” jested Frankie, far too amused by my foliage-based distaste.

Words were a mere appetizer, though, for today it was all about the chase—the glorious anticipation at the starting line, the thumping of hearts, the explosion of energy as paws met dirt.

The sporting events were vast—a spectacle of hurdles, sprints, and feats of endurance that tested both spirit and mettle. I dashed and leapt, muscles singing a harmonious tune with each bound, while the crowd’s cheers rose like a symphony’s crescendo.

I’ll spare you the binary boredom of who won what—after all, Pawsburgh’s charm isn’t in its scoreboards—it’s within the camaraderie that blossoms from shared toil and triumph. Suffice to say, as I crossed the finish line, with Odee and Frankie mere whiskers away, the echoes of our shared laughter dwarfed any podium’s height.

After exertions worthy of our collective canine heritage, an evening of delight awaited us at Wagging Whisk, where fragrant chicken and beef awaited my watering jaws like a familiar bed after a lengthy sojourn.

As I settled under a galaxy of stars, I realized that victories and losses are fleeting, but the tales we dogs create within Pawsburgh’s magical bounds, and the friendships we forge in the frolic of competition—that’s the stuff of legend.

“For the life of a dog,” I whispered into the night, “is measured not in years, but in the depth of joy in every playful romp, every bark of laughter, and every memory shared.”

The End.