Hey Mom,

Just rocked Pawsburgh’s first “Pet-tchelor” as the most adored tail-wagger of the evening. Imagine high-paws, wagging tails, and doggy suitors galore trying to win this Frenchie’s heart with toys and treats. Spoiler: Dempsey brought keys but forgot the watermelon—classic! Learned love’s not about the swag but the snuggles and slobbery smooches. 😉 Full update when I get home! 🐾✨

Lots of licks and love,
Bellie 🐶💖

In Pawsburgh, where the streets hum with the symphonies of barks and the air is perfumed with the scent of newly baked biscuits from the Canine Café, I find myself standing in the pulsing heart of it all, Amber Akita Alley—a dazzling French bulldog by the name of Bella Mae. Today is no regular romp through town, oh no, for love, my furry friends, is in the air, and I, the esteemed belle of the ball, am at the forefront of Pawsburgh’s very first “Pet-tchelor.”

If only my humans could see me now, the hushed grandeur of Garnet Greyhound Grove serving as the backdrop to my starred escapade, they’d never let me out of their sight again. But our secret remains safely tucked between the wag of a tail and the innocent blink of beseeching doggie eyes.

Here they come—paws prancing, eyes gleaming like fresh kibble under the moonlight—the dapperest dogs in town, vying for a nibble of… well, my heart, I suppose. There’s Dempsey, of course, his wheaten fur styled impeccably for the occasion—I’d recognize that enthusiastic canter anywhere.

We open with the most pivotal event, the ‘Sniff-and-Greet,’ a tradition I’ve been told predates even the esteemed Spitz Spire. Truly, no words can capture the sheer ardor of our canine protocol. Once the initial olfactory introductions are made, I utter witticisms that would surely have Sedaris howling with laughter, were he a dog and understood the nuances of our repartee.

“Darlings,” I quip to my admirers, as we laze outside Terrier Tacos—renowned for the ‘Paws-perito’—“one of you will tonight win the coveted final chew toy, but fret not, for each of you already possesses a unique place in my heart, right along with watermelon and fetch.”

Indeed, ’tis a contest of affections; the wooers bring forth offerings—a slobber-worn tennis ball from Spitz, an embellished collar from Greyhound Grove. The Snooty Snout Boutique must be quite vacant tonight! Oh, the way to a French bulldog’s heart is through flattery… and perhaps a Parfait from Pup’s.

But, what’s this? Dempsey appears from The Howling Husky Hardware Store, his maw gripping not a bone nor a ball, but the sacred plastic keys, a veritable stroke of genius which strikes a chord deep within my playful spirit. His tail wags with that familiar Irish mischief. Oh, Dempsey, you scamp, you know me too well.

As if in a dramatic monologue that would have Sedaris in stitches, I admit, “Dempsey, you’ve attended shrewdly to the keys of my heart. But wait…” I pause for effect, “Where’s the watermelon, dear?” The other suitors hang on my every breath—a ballet of ears perked, heads tilted.

Then chaos! The alley’s aflutter with panicked paws as contestants scramble to remedy the oversight. Ah, the endearing calamity of courtship, the cantering theatre of flirting tails. And through it all, there I sit, a belle among beguiled beaus, the cynosure of Pawsburgh’s loving gaze.

Yet, amid the frenzy, a profound realization strikes me, one I deliver with Sedaris-esque candor: “Perhaps love isn’t in the grand jesters—um, I mean, gestures—or the tactical acquisitions of cherished playthings. Maybe it’s in the shared quiet of an unanticipated cuddle, in the steadfast company of a never-fading tail wag, or Dempsey’s earnest, albeit sly, gaze after a failed attempt at vacuum evasion.”

Indeed, amidst the spectacle of Pawsburgh’s inaugural ‘Pet-tchelor’, in this town sewn together by whimsy and the fervor of four-legged heartthrobs, I see before me what it means to be the beating heart of the bark, the herald of houndish amour.

Love, it seems, requires no script, no plot, for it writes itself within every snouted smile, paw in muddy paw. And as the backdrop of Pawsburgh fades to a soft, dusky glow, I realize the most endearing tale isn’t the one told to the humans—it’s lived in the wag of a tail and the beat of a dog’s heart, and oh, it’s quite the tail-wagger.

The End.