Hey Dad,

Just a quick update – I won ‘Survivor’ in Pawsburgh alongside Timber! Turns out instincts + a dash of Grandma Lura’s legend cravings = lifetime of treats. We braved Heart of the Bluffs, deciphered nature’s puzzles, & um, may have outsmarted (and out-snoozed) the competition. Full belly & tall tales coming soon!

Bark at you later,
Oreo 🐾✨

I’ll be honest, the whole idea of joining Pawsburgh’s version of ‘Survivor’ was mostly Timber’s fault. Let’s just say, if ever there was a competition on making foolhardy decisions look appealing, he’d be the reigning champion. And there I was, Oreo the brindle boxer, swayed by his puppy-dog eyes, signing up for a romp at Pyrenean Peak.

So there we stood, Timber and I, and a motley crew of the town’s finest, each one staring down at the map provided by The Pawsome Pet Pharmacy. We were instructed to track down an ancient bone said to be buried in the treacherous Heart of the Bluffs, where shared secrets echo for eternity and hounds dare not sniff alone. Our prize? A lifetime supply of treats from Golden Grub. Competition was, predictably, fierce.

“The first rule of Pawsburgh Survivor is simple,” barked the organiser, a sturdy Rottweiler with a voice gruffer than his bite. “Use your instincts, find the bone, and whatever you do, stick together!”

Easy for him to say. The moment we were unleashed onto Bloodhound Bluffs, each team scattered like kibble from a torn bag, driven by the whispers of eternal glory – and treats. Even among our merry band, it was clear that old souls and young spirits thought rather differently of direction. Timber, predictably, bounded ahead, leaving Grandpa Jerry’s dawdle behind with an apologetic glance.

We faced rugged terrain and the puzzle of nature. Sometimes, the trail would disappear completely, as if the bluffs themselves were in on the game. “Remember, Oreo,” Grandpa Jerry’s voice whispered in my mind, “even if your paws tread lightly, your heart must be bold.”

On we pushed until the Springs – Spaniel Springs, they called it – a place where water sprayed like laughter and tales spun by the dogs who’d drank there danced in the mist.

“I tell you, I’ve seen a tail-twitch as cryptic as Granny Lura’s busiest day in the garden,” I said to Timber, watching him gulp down the water. He returned a quizzical look, clearly weighing whether a tail-twitch could, genuinely, be a puzzle clue.

Twilight shades cascaded upon the Bluffs, drawing shadows out to play in the crannies of my brindle markings. Each silhouette was a secret being whispered to the stones. Perhaps it was divine canine wit, or maybe just pure dumb luck, but a shimmer in the dim caught my eye from within a cavern, accessible only by a dog with stubbornness in his veins. And it was there, cradled in roots older than Pawsburgh itself, that the bone lay undisturbed. I grinned, thinking of Grandma Lura’s delight in telling this victory tale.

Dragging it back through the darkening woods, to where the judges of Rottweiler’s Ribs waited, felt longer than any car ride I’ve savored. But as we emerged, the other dogs pausing their wild stories to peer at our treasure, the triumph felt as sweet as a stolen bite of Dad’s burger.

“Pawsburgh Survivor champions, Timber and Oreo!” The judge’s declaration sent up a bark that would’ve awakened any human from their deepest slumber. An uproar of doggy delight ensued, my muscles slackened from the run, filled instead with elation.

And so, there I lay under the stars on Pyrenean Peak, with Timber’s snoring head rested upon my victorious flank, dreaming of tomorrow’s feast at Golden Grub, surrounded by the stories soon to be told. I licked my paw in quiet pride; through all the adventures and gracious tumblings of fate, it was my story, Oreo’s story, that would embroider the town’s narrative tapestry that night.

The End.