Hey there, compadre! Just conquered Rottweiler Ridge. Kicked up dust in Pawsburgh’s finest boutiques, wolfed down a steak pie that could quell a grizzly’s growl, and lorded over Vizsla Valley’s tug-o-war like the top dog I am. Victory’s mine, but the steak’s all gone! Who knew heroics could give you an appetite? Tell the humans their sheriff’s in town. 🏆🥩🐾

Catch ya on the flip side,
The Haughty Harley

I reckon a day in Pawsburgh ain’t like any other place on God’s green earth — or any color, for that matter. Streets paved with adventure and scents that’d make a bloodhound swoon. I know, you might not peg me for the exuberant kind, but when the humans do their nightly disappearing act, I, Harley by name and bulldog by trade, don’t waste no time skedaddling to Pawsburgh. Today, it was fixin’ to be a hoedown of a day at Rottweiler Ridge.

The sun hung high, like an over-ambitious stagecoach lamp, and I sauntered down Main Street, tipping my hat to the dapper dachshunds doin’ their window shoppin’. My paws took me to Canine Couture Clothing, partly ’cause I knew they’d snuck in some new bandanas worthy of my broad shoulders.

“Harley, you old hound! Them’s perfect for you,” chuckled old Boxer Bob, the tailor with more thread than sense.

I grunted my thanks. Proper talking’s a chore when you’re built with a face like mine, but Bob understood. He’s seen my type before: stoic on the outside, tender as prime rib inside.

Speaking of which, the scent of steak hit my snout, derailing my thoughts and steering me unfalteringly toward Paw-tisserie. Word was, they’d whipped up a steak pie that’d make a grown dog cry.

Now, no self-respecting hero of a western tail—er, tale—strolls into a conflictscape without a compadre at their side, so I met up with my old buddy Jasper, a beagle with a nose for mischief and a tongue for tall tales. We took a table, the whole room smelling like heaven’s kitchen.

“Just don’t mention the ‘B’ word ’round Harley here,” Jasper told the waitress, all sly-like.

She chuckled and took our orders, leaving me to soak up the saloon’s ambience, distinguished doggos left and right, some makin’ small talk, others bragging ’bout their adventures betwixt the trees.

But it weren’t no leisure trip today. Jasper had heard tell of a Discord at Vizsla Valley. A tug-o-war tourney was in town, and I wasn’t one to shy away from a challenge of brawn and stubbornness. The moment my pie was classily devoured — a note to the incredulous: bulldogs can do “classy” — we hightailed it to the valley.

The tug-o-war arena was more crowded than Setter Shore on a hot day, dogs of all stripes lining up, ropes in mouths, and tails a-waggin’. My rugged heart leapt at the sight, and my paw itched for that familiar tension of competition.

“Folks, in this corner, Harley the Haughty!” the MC howled my introduction, and I unleashed a woof that could’ve been mistaken for a roar if your ears were as wrinkled as mine.

The pullin’ was fierce, the contestin’ dog as tenacious as they come. But today, victory was mine, and as I walked away, rope in mouth and tail held high, I couldn’t help but feel like the sheriff who’d just cleaned up the town.

As the day waned and Rottweiler Ridge became a silhouette against the twilight sky, I wondered what tall tale Jasper’d weave about our day. Harsh climates, unforgiving terrain, steak pies, and victories. It was just another day in Pawsburgh, but one that’d surely end up ’round the campfires of our human companions, cleverly translated into barks and wags.

I’ll leave you with this: in Pawsburgh, every dog has its day, and I reckon mine was as hearty as a Husky’s Hotcake served with a side of Pom’s Pies. Yeehaw!

The End.