Hey human,

Just a quick paw-note from your four-legged champion—aced The Pet Games in Pawsburgh. Turns out hedgehog chases and peanut butter pancakes are the keys to canine glory. Tonight, I’m not just Hank, I’m the tail-wagging titan of Topaz Terrier Town. Let’s just say there’s gonna be extra peanut butter at home this year!

Catch ya at the victory lap,
Blue 🐾🥇

So it goes, the life of a dog. Pawsburgh was where I spent my days, a land where us dogs could let our tongues loll about in the thrill of adventure, and let me tell you—adventures I had a-plenty.

Today wasn’t your run-of-the-mill day, and my tail wagged with a purpose as I trotted over the crest of Ruby Rottweiler Ridge. The sun hung like a lazy eye over Topaz Terrier Town as I made my way to the heart of Pawsburgh, where The Pet Games were to commence. The sky threatened tempest, much like my own mysterious coat, but the spirits were high.

I had trained, if you could call chasing my trusty hedgehog around Mastiff Meadows training. It left me fit as a fiddle, ready to represent my breed in the games. In human terms, it’s like that Hunger Games spectacle they seem so morbidly fond of.

You know, it’s a funny thing about humans—they see us play and they laugh, tossing us another ball. But let us loose in Pawsburgh and we’re immortal, mythic. I suppose Kurt Vonnegut might say we’re “unstuck in time” here, free from the leashes of human hours.

I entered the Bark-n-Bite Bistro to fuel up. “One peanut butter pancake stack, please,” I barked to the Husky flipping hotcakes at Husky’s Hotcakes next door. A quick carbo-load and I’d be off to compete.

There’s a camaraderie among us competitors, a mutual respect. There was Beauregard, muscles rippling underneath his sleek fur, waltzing and sniffing and utterly ignoring the lima bean treats. He knew. He caught my eye and we shared a nod; some mysteries of the stomach no dog bothered to solve. My terrier friends yipped cheer about our odds, their words like rapid fire. I found comfort in their tireless barks.

As the sound of the starting horn split the air, we stood at the ready around Pooch’s Pub. The games would test our speed, our cunning, and our appetite—yes, there was an eating contest, which, naturally, omitted lima beans.

They unleashed us upon obstacle courses erected between The Doggie Daycare and The Pawsome Pet Pharmacy, dashes that zigzagged through scent trails, marked by towering photographs at Best in Show Photography. The action was intense, the barks fierce, enthusiasm infectious.

“You’re up, Blue,” an old Beagle commentator howled my nickname, and I felt my heartbeat against my chest like the distant roll of thunder. Ears perked, paws ready, I gazed upon the course; this was my game to win.

Vonnegut might have said it doesn’t matter, but even so, in that moment it was everything.

With the force of a tempest, I blitzed through hollow logs, vaulted hay bales at the agility arena, and dodged swinging toys with a nimbleness that could only come from days of hedgehog pursuit. My pals roared. Could a dog smile? You bet.

As the day grew long and the skies mirrored dusk with my coat’s colors, tales of triumph and licked wounds began to circulate among us. The games had no real consequence, no spoils beyond bragging rights—and a year’s supply of peanut butter for the victor.

Just another day in the life of a Pawsburgh dog, but nonetheless one that’d be remembered.

So there I sat, atop the podium, gazing at the starry sky of Pawsburgh, a town made for dogs, with a belly full of triumph and peanut butter, ever grateful for my mysterious human who, knowingly or not, had prepared me for days as wondrous as this.

So it goes.

The End.