Hey Ma & Pa! 🧀 Just aced my part in the Pawsburgh saga today – brainstormed a blockbuster ‘Pawsitivity’ campaign (hint: involves a lot of tail-wagging at Bark Buffet 😏) and got fitted for a dapper suit for the Top Dog Awards. I’m pretty much the canine epitome of a smooth operator in a fur coat. Left some chicken scraps at the buffet, but don’t wait up—they were never going to make it home! 🐾 Snuggles later! – Bubba

In Pawsburgh, life had a certain kind of rhythm, a syncopated pattern of sniffs and tail wags that if understood, could quite tellingly narrate the grand saga of a borough sans humans. I’m Queso, by the way—the pawfect blend of vigor and velvet, with a bark that’s less of a warning and more of a welcome.

On the particular sun-tickled Tuesday in which our tale unfurls, the streets of Pawsburgh were abuzz with the usual cacophony of canine conversation. The denizens of Sapphire Schnauzer Street barked pleasantries to each other as I trotted past, my eyes set on the more pressing matters of the day.

I made my way to the most curious edifice in all of Pawsburgh: The Pet Office – a place of great hustle, bustle and sniffing, where every dog had their day, each day. Rowdy greeted me at the door with a howl so chipper it could’ve cut through the thickest fog that ever rolled over Doberman Dunes.

“Good morrow, Queso,” he yelped. “Ready for another day in paradise?”

At the entrance, Miss Piddles, the secretary, a Dachshund with an affinity for long stretches and short walks, handed out the memos. She typed with such ferocity that she looked to be trying to bury the keys like they were juicy bones in the backyard.

“Morning, lad,” I grunted, which in dog speak, is akin to the very poetry of pleasantries. I sauntered to my desk, a spot cozily adorned with my beloved squeaky red ball and a framed photo of my human counterparts.

The Pet Office was a stage upon which a farce played daily—the dogs, wearing ties and spectacles, favoring paperwork and power naps in equal parts. Today’s agenda: a meeting about the new ‘Pawsitivity’ campaign, chaired by our overly ambitious intern, a Corgi whose accolades were as long as his body was short.

“Item one,” the Corgi began, adjusting his tie so that it pointed steadfastly to his ambitions, “we need to increase morale. Ideas?”

A pregnant pause ensued, followed by synchronized head tiltings. Just as the silence threatened to become awkward, my rumbling voice filled the void.

“What about a feast at Bark Buffet? There’s nothing that speaks to the canine spirit quite like an all-you-can-eat experience,” I offered, my thoughts drifting to the savory chickens that I longed for more than a midday nap.

A round of excited barks followed my suggestion. The Corgi scribbled it down with paws smudging the ink every now and then, marking the idea as ‘Queso Inspired’, which I found to be mildly flattering though quite accurate.

In Pawsburgh, the surreal was normal, and the preposterous commonplace. Dogs ruling an office, discussions on dining—it all made sense in a place unbound by human logic. We thrived in the disarray.

And to top it off, a trip to The Tail Wagger’s Tailor, where I would be measured up for a suit sharp enough to slice cheddar—I’d wear it to The Top Dog Awards. Rowdy said it highlighted my patches, and he’s the Cary Grant of canines if ever there was one.

The day waned as it had waxed, full of purposeful prancing and paperwork gnawed at the edges. We clocked out, barking our goodbyes as we made for our respective retreats. Home to our humans, secrets of Pawsburgh tucked beneath our collars.

Sat by the sun-dappled lake, I recounted the misadventures of the day to my mom-and-dad, their faces a canvas of human puzzlement and joy. I left out the part where I devoured a tray of chicken at Bark Buffet. Some tales are best savored in the silent symphony of memory, or indeed, over a squeaky red ball chase—that bouncy harbinger of tales to come.

The End.