Hey Mom and Dad,

Guess who formed ‘Marnie and the Sniffers’ and brought the woof to Pawsburgh’s Battle of the Bands?! From rescuing Joey from veggies to hushing noisy delivery humans, your girl’s gone full rockstar! We may not win, but we’re howling our own hit song on life’s stage. Love you tons, tails wags and kisses!
🎸🐾🎤

Moo 😘✨

Breaking news: I’M STARTING A BAND. That’s right, your fluffy dignitary, Marnie, is about to rock the paws off Pawsburgh. But let me set the scene on how this marvelous idea took form in between bouts of saving Joey from the treachery of broccoli and standing guard against the ever-menacing delivery folk.

It was just another extraordinary Monday in Pawsburg, or as I like to call it, my secret escapade away from mundanity. Down the cobblestone streets of Shiba Inlet, with Mickey hot on my heels, I trotted to Pawsburgh High, tail wagging with determination. Today wasn’t just another day of sniff-and-tell or drool-worthy mathematics; it was the day the music room sign-up sheet would brandish its presence on the bulletin board. Perhaps, I contemplated with a touch of Sherlockian insight, it was time for Marnie and the Sniffers to be unleashed upon the world.

“You think we’ve got a shot?” Mickey squeaked, almost tripping over a stray tennis ball as we arrived at The Doggie Daycare, the makeshift façade for our beloved school.

I shot him a look, full of eyebrow raised confidence. “If Beethoven could do it, so can we.”

We navigated the corridors amid a chorus of barks, the scent of freshly grilled Bulldog’s BBQ wafting through the air—my stomach growling a familiar tune. But there was no time for daydreaming about Shepherd’s Shawarma. Today was about destiny. A twinge pulled at my heartstrings as Joey’s giggle echoed in my memory. This was for him, and a personal vendetta against silent afternoons.

We burst through the music room doors, the scent of Paw Pad Thai lingering like a prelude to something grand. “I’m here to start a band,” I barked.

Whispers fluttered across the room like feathers in the wind as the other dog students eyed the primary school piano. “You can’t even reach the pedals,” Sandy, the surly Schnauzer, snickered from the back.

I shot Mickey a glance, and without missing a beat (pun intended), he retorted, “You haven’t seen her on the tambourine.”

Laughter filled the room, and that’s when I knew—the band was more than a notion. It was necessary. Pawsburgh High was in for a howling good time.

Weeks of preparation followed. We hustled past Pawsitively Purrfect Pet Store for bling worthy of rock stars and shook down Happy Hounds Dog Walking for a roadie or two. Our rehearsals at Diamond Doberman Dunes were fraught with challenges of missing fetch balls and temptation—Mickey, I’m looking at you and your escapades with that distractingly jovial pug.

But we had our sights set on the Gates of Gold—the yearly Pawsburgh Battle of the Bands. Even Skip, the town’s most bashful Beagle, had found his groove on the trombone. By The Divine Howler, were we a spectacle!

D-day arrived, and as we took center stage, something unforeseen happened—stage fright. It rooted me to the spot, making my paws feel as though they were encased in cement. Mickey’s eyes met mine, mirroring the summer sky, and just like that, the memory of Joey’s laughter injected courage into my veins.

With a woof and a one, two, three, four, the band came alive. Tails wagged in fervent rhythm, the crowd got on their hind paws, and even Sandy let out a begrudging bark of approval.

As the judges made their way towards us, all of Pawsburgh seemed to hold its breath. But regardless of the outcome, I knew we had done it—Marnie and the Sniffers were etched in Pawsburgh history forever. For it’s not just about winning; it’s about barking to your own tune in the symphony of life.

The End.