“Hey family, spent the day saving the neighborhood, no biggie! Stopped a squirrel heist, guided lost kittens and spread joy, with added tail wags. All in a day’s work for your fur hero, Wolfgang aka Waggy!”

I ain’t one to toot my own horn, but in a world gone bones-up, I’ve got something to say. That’s right, it’s me – Wolfgang, hollering at you from this here rebuilt society of Pawsburg. How we got here is a stranger yarn than a bobbin full of mismatched socks, but pull up a seat by the fire-pit and let me spin it for you.

The big catastrophe, humankind’s dreadful hubris, let loose a storm sweeter’n rotten meat to my sensitive nostrils. The world got shook like a rag-doll and the two-legs weren’t no more. It’s a sordid tale, friends, of desolation and pickle juice, but that ain’t the tale I’m aiming to tell. I’ll tell you the story of Pawsburg—where canines hold sway and rule of paw is the law.

The order of the day in Pawsburg is by the Book of Sniff and Whiff—the smellier the tail, the higher your station. Me—with my mix of boxer blood and the biggest, dangliest droopy jowls in the town—am recognized as something of a bloodhound. Truth be told, I don’t mind calling the shots, but it ain’t all balls and biscuits, no sir. The title brings some gravitas.

One chilly day, after the rain had come and given the world a good-old whisker-wetting, I spied a ripple in the pond. Dumbledore, the one-eyed tabby who talks as if he’s swallowed a dictionary, had once told me about reflections, but this was twisted and distorted. I knew something was amiss.

Racing over, as fast as my hindquarters could thump the earth, I met with a sorry sight. Muffles, the poor Springer Spaniel from Piccadilly Litter was trapped beneath the ponds’ ice cap. Teeth chattering and folds a-quivering, Muffles whimpered like a pup denied its mother’s teat.

I didn’t have to think twice. The law of the paw decreed that the one with the longest whiskers ruled the roost. But as I plowed my head through that confounded ice, it was about more than badges or tail length, it was about doing right.

Muffles got out shivering and snorting, more fluff than huff, but he survived—thanks to Wolfgang, the needle-nosed mutt from the unfashionable end of the Park. In Pawsburg, we had a society that looked after our own, even when the sky had come raining down. Here, a good sniffer wasn’t just about sniffing out grubs or gadflies, but about sniffing out trouble and putting it right. Because in Pawsburg, it’s the heart that counts, not the size of your coat.

Rebuilding is a relentless labor, friends—a steady yank on the leash, if you will—but us dogs, we’re born to run, nose-first into the gale. We work hard, sun up to sundown, bark when we must, wag when we can. Our world, Pawsburg, it’s our fetching-ground, our garden of four-legged integrity. It ain’t a perfect place, I confess, but it’s home. And that, friends, beats a belly-rub on a sunny day.