“Hey mom-dad! Dodged the mean cats, helped the neighbor’s dachshund find his bone, & also found a new park! Quite a day for your Bella baby girl. PS. Any treats for the hero?” 🐾

I’ve been known to be a canine of considerable patience, a necessity perhaps when one’s life has been orphaned by the wayward locomotion of the Earth’s crust, but I’ll tell you, when you’re forced into the ranks of the movers and the shakers, you gain a particular appreciation for the comically tragic dichotomy man touts as civilization.

They call it Pawsburg, a name borrowed from a leftover sign found lodged in a tree like a crow’s breakfast. I’m Bella, by the way, a dog who somehow became the charge of this quaint society of eclectic remnants. My days are much more than chasing my tail, though certainly, the bureaucracy of running a town elicits an itch of a kind.

Yesterday brought Mavis, the weasely terrier from the Wire-Haired Wreckers, a group named more for the state of their appearances than any penchant for destruction. “Bella,” she said, “We’ve been working tirelessly in the Turnip fields. It’s about time the Retrievers handle the harvest!”

“Easy, Mavis,” I said, not breaking eye contact, asserting a mayor’s diplomacy, “I’ll speak with Rex and come up with a plan.”

The days seem like soups of unending engagements, endless barks of bureaucracy. In the afternoons, I head down to the Printer’s Alley, just to hear Buster, the dachshund who forgetfully thinks he’s a cat, sing his sweet serenades.

Last week, I decided to implement (and by that, I mean I lazily allowed it to dawn as a natural consequence of life) a decree where those capable of climbing trees, like Pogo, a springy little spaniel with the demeanor of an overzealous squirrel, could be responsible for assembling our meager defenses. The look they gave me, one might think I suggested they fling sticks at the moon.

Today, those ragged PitBulls from the junkyard stopped by under negotiations about the neighborhood noise. Imagine the volume of their howls had they not designated the peace negotiations to me.

As the sun sinks, I often observe the silhouette of the dogs at play in the golden light. Pawsburg is always bustling, and perhaps in the eyes of the world, we are just dogs playing at civilization. But, here in our shared commotion, I feel a sense of purpose, even in the motley collection of personalities that define this place. The sheer, stubborn, unbroken spirit of survival reaches a poetic crescendo within these boundaries we call home.

Truth be told, the crown of unofficial mayor of Pawsburg hoisted on my furry head is more a crown of thorns than regal jewelry, but it’s a weight I carry with humor and a dogged resilience. In Pawsburg, every day brings its own breed of challenges, addressed with the wit and whim of a canine, howling on the precipice of catastrophe and comedy.