“Hey Dad, king of Pawsburg, I’m living life on my terms, chicken strips, no carrots & belly rubs, surrounded by laughter & friends. I’m a bulldog in a town of pedigrees, owning my fawns and wrinkles, making each day an adventure! Fear not, I still hate carrots. 😉 – Fat Herm”

Listen to the story here.

Fat Herm was a rumpled old bulldog in a town where everybody wanted to be a thoroughbred, prancing around with their pedigrees hanging around their necks like golden chains. But, Herm, his earth-shaking snore echoing through Pawsburg, cared very little for such canine trivialities. It was just another night in Pawsburg and most of the pack had retired to Lower Golden Gate Gardens or Corgi Castle. But I was still up, penning down this epic tale of the bulkiest underdog this town had ever seen.

He loved his life, his uncouth friends, his crispy grilled chicken strips, and his belly-rub toy. But not the carrots, they were the bane of his existence. “Outrageous!” He would exclaim, hurling an offending carrot across the room.

Early mornings found him at Paws-A-Latte, sniffing out treats and scandal alike. After our morning forage, we would retreat to Pet Partners Pet Supplies. The shop’s owner had a parrot, squawking out obscene anecdotes, much to Herm’s amusement. We laughed till our sides hurt. It was a riot, living as Herm’s chronicler. His paradoxical personality, a strange mixture of silence and flamboyance, was the stuff of legends.

“Herm!” I’d shout, as he would ensnare himself in the cherry blossoms of his favorite park, lost forever in the intoxicating scent. Watching him in this state was a reminder of the many contrasts in this rotund rascal – a tough exterior with a heart soft as the cherry blossoms he loved so much.

Afternoons were spent at his beloved Spa for Paws, alternately sleeping and getting his manicure. No carrots in sight. That was crucial for Fat Herm, the unprecedented protagonist of my tale.

Nights were for dining out. We’d hit The Bone Appetit or Pup-Tizers but Herm’s eyes would shine brightest when those grilled chicken strips arrived. He’d wolf them down, smacking his lips like a king, casting his distaste for carrots far away.

Every day in Pawsburg was an adventure with Fat Herm. We didn’t know what the next turn would bring us- a wild chase with the street raccoon gang or a face-off with the snooty corgi from the castle. The other dogs didn’t get it. The Persian cat, with her uptight walk and lustrous fur, didn’t get it. The old turtle, forever cribbing about a mysterious past life, didn’t get it. They didn’t understand our camaraderie.

“Ignore them, Herm,” I’d tell him. “People always fear what they don’t understand”. He’d just wag his tail in appreciation and nose-dive back into his grilled chicken.

Surrounded by friends, shrouded in mystery, giddy with adventures – Fat Herm was a hero even without a shimmering cape, living his epic tale in the heart of Pawsburg. And I had the honor, nay, the absolute privilege, of being his scribe, the silent witness to his tremendous spirit. The tale of Fat Herm is a testimonial to being unique, of unapologetically striving within one’s skin, even if it’s abundant and droopy. As I delve further into his world, one wrinkled spectacle unravels another – and that, right there, is the beauty of living this epic with Fat Herm, the fawn-wrinkled, belly-rub-loving hero of Pawsburg.

The End.