“Hey mom,

Dawn climb up Pawsburgh Hill just to soak in city lights. Got my scent on Furrific Fried Chicken but you know me, it’s those peanut butter cheesy bones! Met rival Enzo, had a bone squabble. Good news, being the gentleman I am, handed over my treasure, his bark-talk is too convincing! And paws down, life’s just bones n biscuits.

Sudden downpour, had a detour. You’d have had a laugh! All in a day in this wild pawstory.

Woofs,
B. Buns”

It was one of them oclock in the morning gigs when I found myself atop the hill overlooking Pawsburgh, Bronson by my side. Biscuits and bones, you would’ve been deceived into thinking it was one of them surreal paintings, except it was living, breathing. The bustling Shih Tzu Stadium, the breathtaking Labradoodle Lake and Maltese Meadow, all draped under the starry bluish-black cloak. Bronson sat down on his sturdy haunches, his quiet eyes soaking in the serene spectacle, avoiding the chaos of the city and the barren desert.

A dog’s nose is a fine thing, it lives where ours only vacations. Bronson’s, though, had a propensity for picking out the scent of Furrific Fried Chicken from the plethora of buildings housing Tail Waggers and Whiskers and Wings. His huge brown eyes rolled in happiness, and he emitted a satisfied sound that was somewhere between a whine and a smirk.

We went down to town. He waited patiently, ignoring the medley of smells wafting from the shops, The Woofy Bakery, The Doggie Daycare, and The Pooch Playhouse. He was waiting for the one thing that truly mattered at the moment – the cheesy aroma combined with the peanut buttery lure of his favorite bone from the Furrific Fried Chicken.

“Cheese atop peanut butter goodness, Bronson? On a bone? You sure are a character,” I grinned, patting his broad head.

An interesting event followed, as it had to. Out sauntered the notorious Enzo, a Chihuahua with the temperament of an overworked sheriff. Bronson’s only friend, whom with all the stubbornness he sketched his soul, he had chosen, leaving every other dog. No one knew why, but it was an Enzo-Bronson thing.

“Barnstorms! Enzo,” I exclaimed.

A squabble ensued between the two friends, the object of contention: Bronson’s fresh bone. Bronson jumped to protect it, a growl rumbling in his throat, but then Enzo bark-talked at him. Bronson, being the loyal friend, gave in inevitably with a sigh, a funny smirk crossing his face.

“Bronson, you old rascal. You’d give your bone to Enzo over a… a pesky noise like a hairdryer? ”

His brown eyes turned to me, a twinkle hiding in those deep pools. He shook his head, wagging his tail. Although he didn’t say it out loud, I heard the message loud and clear, “I tell you, sir, it all feel right ridiculous to make too much of worldly matters. It’s all bones and biscuits at the end of the day!”

On the way home, we ran into a sudden storm, he looked at me with a frown tracing his face, “Rain? No, thank you,” and with that, we took an unexpected detour.

With Bronson in tow, life was as unpredictable as the Old West, as entertaining as a silent movie, and as deliciously enjoyable as melted cheese on a crunchy biscuit. It was indeed a day in the life of Bronson, the English Bulldog, my confidant, my companion, my quirky sidekick in the Wild West of Pawsburgh.

The End.