Hey, it’s The Great Dane of Debate here. Just wrapped up a day of steely resolve and tongue-wagging diplomacy at the Pawsburg capitol, steering clear of beet conspiracies and laying down laws for new dog parks. Tail still wagging from the victory. Catch ya at the oak for more tales and triumphs soon. – Gunnar

As I, Gunnar, the grand Great Dane of Pawsburg, awakened with the hum of tranquility that wrapped around my noble form like a familiar blanket, I suspected nary a thing of the singular events that would unfold this sunlit day. From the casual observer’s stance, this rhythmical morning unfolded no differently than any others, yet I bore the quiet anticipation of a statesman before a grand assembly.

If’n Topaz Terrier Town be the Copperfield of the canine world, then I reckon its Tower of Babel was the Pawsburg capitol, an imposing edifice of governance where I acted, on appointed occasions, as the paw of reason. Today was to be my most illustrious.

Now, under the grand old oak, where whispers of secret summits and treaties passed like phantoms on the breeze, I heaved myself to thoroughly respectable paws and set a course for civic duty. The air was crisp, and as I lumbered along, my ears caught the distant din of barking and bleating. It was Baxter, no doubt, already in a confab with Miss Whiskers, who always seemed to find her perch aloft where the lesser beasts could but crane necks and squint eyes.

Upon my stately arrival at the capitol, the stage was set—tender biped comparisons aside—for the canine equivalent of high-minded congress, where we’d run a country near akin to our human companions’ wishful portrayals in their theaters of politick.

Before I could cross the threshold, my senses were hailed by the fragrant aromas of Collie’s Cuisine, ambrosial scent waves that brought a pang to my adherent belly. “Not yet,” I muttered, loyalty trumping inclination. One cannot negotiate on an overindulged stomach.

The assembly room buzzed, more akin to the Pomeranian Park on a festival day than the council of serious-minded representatives. I surveyed the room, my daunting height offering me the unique vantage to command attention with but a simple clearing of my throat. “Gentledogs, if you’d be so kind,” I began, an orator well-versed in the subtleties of canine diplomacy.

The proposal of the day was sensible, yet contentious—to erect a dog park in Rottweiler Ridge, a location hitherto untouched by the joyful caperings of our kind. The debates were as fervent as they were ardent, but in my characteristic calm, I led with wisdom and the gentle force of my towering presence, tail swathed in the diplomacy of restrained wags.

None the less, amidst the spirited colloquy, my thoughts strayed to that dastard, the beet, as Miss Whiskers quipped a tart jest about its encroachment onto our menu. My rueful gaze must have betrayed me, for the room embraced silence as if winter had gripped the very air we respired. Cancerous crimson, I proclaimed the beet to be the Machiavellian morsel amongst our midst, procuring confirmatory chuffs and eschewing further mention.

Midst merriment and resolution, the hours pressed on wings of debate and deliberation until canine astuteness emerged triumphant. A park was to crown the Ridge, and as canine olfactories can’t abide the beet, it was decreed to keep our culinary landscapes bereft of its presence.

As twilight brushed the sky with dusky strokes, our congress disbanded in goodly cheer. I, Gunnar, stole away to my favorite oak, the beast of burden whose great boughs had borne witness to Pawsburg’s history in the making. The adventures that coursed through my veins were a testimony to the harmonious existence we’d sculpted; a country governed by the paw, reliable as the grand oak, and endearing as the earnest tug of a frayed blue dragon plushie. Here, in Pawsburg, where tales spin like leaves in the wind, I abide as a diplomat, a confidant, a friend—the embodiment of the noble creatures that trot the hallowed grounds of this canine realm.

The End.