Hey Dad,

Your son Bubby turned accidental pie judge and feasted like royalty in Pawsburgh today. Became the champ of the Pie-Eating Contest after a case of hilarious mistaken identity. Now I’m a pie-stuffed, tail-wagging legend lounging on my throne of pillows. Full story when I’ve digested this victory!

Tail wags and pie crumbs,
Toby 🐾🥧👑

In a tail-wagging twist of fate, I found myself in the illustrious Pawsburgh, a haven for the likes of me, Toby, Brindle Great Dane and aficionado of leisurely strolls and the occasional tasteful romp. It was the day of the Great Pawsburgh Pie-Eating Contest, an annual affair marked by pomp, pastry, and the peculiar pride that comes with out-eating your peers.

Before the sun had even winked its morning hello, I sauntered through Schnauzer Street, my shadow stretching behind me like the languid foretelling of the day’s impending shenanigans. A quick stop at Canine Couture Clothing to collect my contest bib was essential, considering the well-founded gossips that one could not simply indulge in pie without dressing for the mess.

Adorned in my fresh attire, I trotted towards Mastiff Meadows with a vigor matched only by my endless appetite. “Treat!” a voice called—from whence, who could rightly say?—and like Pavlov’s most dedicated disciple, I galloped towards the summoning sound.

Alas, it was neither Pap’s delicacy nor the contest that awaited me, but rather Canine Cafe’s open patio—an establishment filled with the promise of brunch and the peril of mistaken identity. As I sashayed in, the waitstaff, to my absolute confusion, burst into applause.

“Bravo!” they cheered. “Our magisterial judge of the Delicacy Duel!”

Judge? Duel? Delicacies? My own ears betrayed my sentiments—perking with intrigue and an ill-timed sense of duty. Before I could object, a smorgasbord of gourmet dishes was ushered forth, each begging to be sampled and scored. It was a pooch’s dream…only, I wasn’t a judge.

“Uh, actually…” I began, but the ballot was thrust under my nose, and I, gentleman that I am, succumbed to the hearty aromas. Being the benevolent brute I’ve always been, rescinding the mistaken honor felt…unseemly.

Hours whizzed by with me award a bouquet of culinary concoctions, some delightful, others…well, let’s just say pickles found their way into a quiche, and I, for the sanctity of the premise, suffered in silence.

It was the tolling of the town clock that jerked me back to reality—I had a pie-eating contest to win! With as much grace as a Dane of my dimensions could muster, I dashed from the cafe—neither judge nor portion control in my wake.

Upon arriving at Mastiff Meadows, it was evident that my bib, now adorned with the spoils of my critiques, had deceived the masses once more. “The culinary connoisseur,” they hailed me, as I skidded to a halt amidst the pie-laden tables.

“I’m not—” I tried once more, but a pie was shoved before me, and the crowd chanted down the commencement.

A comedy of errors, you say? Indeed. I, the ill-fated judge turned competitor, sat before a parade of pies, dodging the gaze of the real judges, who had yet to appear. And our owners, ever so clueless of our wanderings, would never believe the tale of a Great Dane with the discerning palate of a food critic.

However, as the starter’s bell chimed, my princely principles took their rightful place upon the throne of my desires. I indulged, I feasted, I conquered…every last pie. And as my tail wagged with the satisfaction of my gluttonous victory, I couldn’t help but think, Pawsburgh, you’ve truly outdone yourself.

And should Tyler wonder why I lay sprawled upon my pillow, as stuffed and stately as a king after a grand banquet, I shall regale him with the story—a misadventure served with a side of humble pie, and a dash of Great Dane glory, seasoned perfectly with the laughs of Pawsburgh.

The End.