Hey Mom,

Just thought I’d chase you quick with a text – today I totally fetched glory at the Grand Pawsburgh Playoffs! Yep, this golden Lab was sprinting, leaping, and narrating an epic tail (pun intended). Made it through the games wagging, even took a splash in the dreaded water round because, well, friendship. Post-victory biscotti at Mutt Munchies is definitely happening. Tell Dad I’m bringing home a tale along with a wagging tail!

Wet paws and victory barks,
Reba 🐾🏆

It was upon a crisp dawn, when the world outside the magical canine borders of Pawsburgh yawned and stretched its sunbeams, that I, Reba, felt the familiar thrum of adventure deep in my chest. Today was the day of the Grand Pawsburgh Playoffs – a tournament of tail-wagging sports played fervently in the lush fields of Hound Heights.

I trotted to the edge of Onyx Otterhound Oasis, where the water mirrored the crystal-clear sky, a perfect spot for some pre-game reflection. I had arrived earlier than my companions—Oscar, Kemah, and Harlie with their usual tardiness—providing me with a few precious moments as my own.

I mused on the banquet we were to have at Mutt Munchies post-game; I could almost taste their famous Liver and Bacon Biscotti. Perhaps, afterwards, a quick dip of the paws at Spa for Paws, to rejuvenate from the sporting exertions. Fetch! Toys and Treats, would see a raiding from me and my friends, undoubtedly.

I wondered, not without humor, whether humans ever dreamed up places such as Setter’s Steakhouse, for solely canine connoisseurs. The very thought made my tail wag a merry beat as the reflection in the water struggled to keep up with its pendulum.

As I ambled my way to the Bluffs, the sounds of excitement grew. Dogs of all breeds and size were warming up. The rich, musky scent of determination filled the air. The games were afoot, and not the Sherlock-Holmesian kind – more of the run-and-fetch-and-jump-and-dash variety. All quite exhilarating.

I remember once reading Mr. Jerome K. Jerome remark on the peculiarities of getting lost in thought midst physical exertion; I find it most agreeable. For indeed I, in true Lab fashion, am always chasing more than just a ball or a frisbee; I am chasing the narrations of my day, carving them into epic odysseys with every pant and leap.

I’m not conceited – heavens no – but I am a competitor. There’s something about the feel of the wind parting around me, of the earth giving away under my powerful strides that’s, well, it’s rather invigorating.

My friends arrive, panting with the exertion of their sprint from who-knows-where (I tell you, these young pups, they’ve the time management of a squirrel). We exchange glances of camaraderie, tails thumping in unison.

We are a sight to see on the field: Oscar, nimble and quick; Kemah with a keen focus like none other; and Harlie, sturdy and stalwart, always keeping a close eye out. And then there’s me, the golden Lab who can fetch a tennis ball from the thicket faster than you can say ‘Pawsburgh’.

Our team name, they say, is apt: The Thundering Tails. And thunder we do, from one victorious round to the next, sending our competition pointing their paws to the sky, querying if that was indeed thunder they heard, or just the sound of us sprinting past.

We near the finals, where the air is thick with the smell of victory, or is it just the wafting scent from Setter’s Steakhouse? Sometimes it’s hard to tell. Amidst the glory and cheers, I saw, what I now realize, was my own chagrin mirrored. Ah yes, the water-based round, oft likened to a dog’s very own triathlon. But you see, dear reader, my distaste for the wet and wild obstacle course has never been much of a secret in these parts.

The whistle blows, my friends take the plunge, and Damn it all, I think, as I chase after them – for there’s no greater sport than friendship, no grander prize than a tale to tell. And so begins another tale of Reba, another race to run in the grand, never-ending dream of Pawsburgh.

The End.

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