Hey Mom,

Turns out, I’m quite the tail-wagging philanthropist in Pawsburgh! Became the Santa for Sapphire Schnauzer Street, delivering barker Bakery’s finest to the less fortunate pups. Who knew my nose for peanut butter would lead to a heart full of joy? I’m off to dream of lamb clouds. Penny the Brave strikes again! 😊🐾

Penny

If I had thumbs, darling, I would be penning this account while sipping a saucer of beef broth at Shepherd’s Shawarma, but as my digits are otherwise engaged in more canine pursuits, you will have to settle for the tale as it unfolds in my mind.

You see, contrary to popular human belief, a dog’s life does not cease with the last drawn breath – oh no. It simply transcends to a pawsome eternity in Pawsburgh, where the streets are paved with squeaky toys and the fire hydrants never run dry. It’s a whimsical place, I assure you, but let me dive straight into my latest escapade.

Yesterday, as the sun winked goodbye and the stars began their nightly gossip, I snuck away from my slumbering human’s embrace to a gathering at Opal Pomeranian Park—a soiree, if you dare. There, nestled between fine furry fellows, feelings of inadequacy nipped at my heels. Why, you ask? My dear friend Flip – a handsome Pitbull with a heart matching his stature, had recounted his philanthropy adventures once again. Flip had become rather famous for his balloon charity for the tailless breeds. Yes, balloons, to lift their spirits, as he put it.

Now I’ve never been one to wallow in self-pity, but in that moment, I was as low as the aforementioned tailless dogs. I, Penny, with the heart of a lioness and the nose as red as a clown’s Sunday suit, had not an achievement to my name, save for an uncanny ability to locate peanut butter in a sealed jar three rooms away.

Decided and determined, I trotted, nay, pranced to Barker’s Bakery, where the aroma of oven-fresh biscuits could make a saint swoon. “I shall volunteer,” I boldly announced to Barker, who regarded me with a skeptical brow raised.

“Volunteer for what, dear Penny?” His voice was a smooth caramel, doubtfully delicious.

“I’ll help you deliver your confections to the less fortunate hounds of Sapphire Schnauzer Street,” I replied with a flourish of my not-so-precise tail.

Well, the next morning (or was it the same? The concept of time here is as chewy as a five-year-old rawhide), I found myself laden with baskets, each a cornucopia of canine delights. My journey was a pilgrimage of redemption, each step proof of my goodwill. Mind you, I didn’t meet a soul who wasn’t in sheer ecstasy at the sight of me, baskets and all. I was like the Santa of the dog world—if Santa ever had a red nose and a penchant for chew toys.

It was amidst the satisfying exhaustion and drool of gratitude, dear reader, that I made a revelation as striking as the hazel in my eyes: to be a ‘better’ dog, one need not perform monumental acts of goodwill. The act of trying, the sheer ludicrous endeavor, is often enough.

By the time the sun stretched its golden paws across the horizon, I nestled back into bed beside my human, a hero in my own tiny, but no less important, cosmos. As my eyes fluttered towards dreams made of endless mountains and lamb-shaped clouds, I mused that perhaps I hadn’t reached Flip’s heights of grandiosity, but Penny the Red-Nosed, Penny the Brave, Penny the Good had etched her mark.

Oh, but let’s keep this between us, shall we? One mustn’t brag. It’s terribly unbecoming for a dog of my stature, which is compact but nonetheless mighty. Yes, let’s just say I’ve had my adventure, and perhaps, tomorrow, I’ll have another, in the enchanting Pawsburgh.

The End.