Hey Mom! Just wanted to let you know that while my humans think I just chase squirrels all day, I’m actually Orlando—Shih Tzu detective extraordinaire! Last night, I faced off in Pawsburg’s secret Bark Club, proving my bark reigns supreme among the neighborhood dogs. And guess what? I came out as the reigning champ. Don’t worry, I’ll still be the cute pup you know and love at home. 🐾

Love, Dando

When you live a double life, you’d hope the more thrilling segment involves more than humans getting a little too excited over the crinkly sound of carrot sticks. But things aren’t always what they appear, and Pawsburg, with its whispered legends and tangy aromas from Sniffer’s Sandwiches, was anything but ordinary. You see, while the dew was still fresh on the earth, I, Orlando—Shih Tzu extraordinaire, with a coat softer than a goblin’s tears—was hot on the trail of an underground excitement that made my humans’ world look positively pedestrian.

It all started at Briard Bridge, where the shadows of the thick wooden beams stretched long under the moonlight. Bailey, the ever-enthusiastic Beagle with a nose for mischief, trotted up to me, an undeniable gleam in his eye. Following close behind was Luna, our sensible German Shepherd who kept us grounded (sometimes literally, whenever Bailey’s antics got out of paw).

“Orlando,” Bailey stage-whispered, breathless, tail in furious motion, “I found something. Gale force excitement, if you catch my drift.”

I raised an eyebrow—or would have, had my face evolved in that direction. “Bailey, last time it was a soap bubble.”

“Eureka!”, Bailey exhaled, “Silence, fluffy one. This is different. At third bell of the Growl Tower… you’ll see.”

Suspense brewed like a stormy pool of gravy. Third bell of Growl Tower? That was the witching hour for sure. I wanted no more disappointment, and no more broccoli—who serves mini-trees in place of a hearty chicken chunk?

Nevertheless, when the clock struck with a rattling chime, there I was at Harrier Harbor. The moonbeam stretched to my curled tail as I approached a rather unassuming shed. The kind that smells vaguely of ancient wool sweaters and mystery.

Luna, in her constant sage mode, was already there, her keen ears perking to the sound of soft grunts and whispering scratches. There, behind a myriad of barrels, was Pawsburg’s best-kept secret and the most exhilarating spectacle known to dog-kind.

A fight club—but not as you’d suspect. This was the Bark Club. The rules, you remember, weren’t for the faint of snout—”We do not talk about Bark Club” being the prime directive—and yet, the whole town seemed to exist in whispered knowledge of its dynamics. It was all about who had the mightiest bark and the sleekest skills, not brawls but bravado.

That night, a stout dachshund named Rufus held court, challenging all to a showdown of deafening woof justice. I stood behind Luna, and from the ring of posturing pooches emerged a chihuahua with the bark of an Alsatian thunderstorm.

The floor was a chaos of fluffy drama and vocal prowess. Bailey, utterly entranced, looked at me with the fire of determination in his eyes. “Orlando,” he said, “Tonight, we join!”

“Join?” I twitched, incredulous, “Do you bark so loudly, or does your brain yap louder?”

Then, Luna nudged me forward, her serene eyes saying what her stoic lips did not. Trembling with excitement, I cleared my throat, stepped into the makeshift arena of canines, and let loose my most confident bark—a solid tenor, with the emotional edge of a Shakespearean sonnet.

Flabbergasted, fights ceased, and a hush descended like a woeful bathtime. I felt like a king—a soft-coated, freshly-groomed conqueror of vocal dominance—unleashed in the heart of Pawsburg’s secret society. My bark had thrilled the crowd, demanding respect earned not through fur-raising fights, but the might of a sound well-placed.

Back on the grassy hills next day, the ducks quacked their normalcy, and children played fetch. I lounged, tail curling lazily. I’d faced the Bark Club and lived to tell the tale, which I wouldn’t, of course—not about Bark Club. Per Pawsburg’s finest tradition, I greeted my human keeper with the most charming Shih Tzu twinkle. They’d be none the wiser, thinking I’d simply been reveling in squirrels and sunshine.

Moments, after all, were shaped by perspective, and in mine—a small dog under a big moon—I was Pawsburg royalty.

The End.

Share This Story: