“Scored some grilled chicken from Bark & Bites but got punk’d by the postman with a citrus wreath on my tail! Laughed it off and played the drama queen. Pawsburg, never a dull moment. Good night, till another day of adventures. Cocktails and Tails, Samillva”

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Call me Samillva – a round-breasted, bow-legged lady hailing from the quaint ol’ Pawsburg. Nothing in the world, from East Bulldog Bay’s lazy sunsets to the sparkling ruffle of Labradoodle Lake, matches the thrill of life beneath my little cordovan ceiling. Just me, my rubber chicken toy, and the wild frontier of my picket-fenced world.

One day, while the humans were pondering the parables of pronounceable life, I found myself staring down an empty Sunshine Lane. The citric sting of fresh-squeezed lemonade wafted through Pawsburg. A mortal offense akin to bucking bronco in a church-house, let alone the ol’ west we call home.

But hunger is a brutal mistress, about as forgiving as a Longhorn bull with a burr under his saddle. Truth be told, the pull of grilled chicken from Bark and Bites was filling up my thoughts faster than a gold rush fills up a town full of saloons and shotgun weddings. How happy I was, readying myself for a walk to the town, the prospect of juicy morsels lacing every thought.

I swaggered out, Joey’s kiss still fresh on my bulldog snout. The vision of that tasty delight drowned out the bitter stings of my citrusy surroundings. Slowly but surely I crossed the rough and tumble terrain of our leafy neighborhood. Past the Groom Room where the poodle, Dandy, with his fluffy tail high in the air, turned his prying eyes away from me – couldn’t handle my beauty, no doubt.

With a hint of excitement, I sauntered into Bark and Bites. Old Mack and Nibbler were lounging there, sinning away their afternoon. Mack’s eyes were half-closed, drunk on the aroma of incoming batches of Bark Burgers. Nibbler was twitching his bushy tail awkwardly, avoiding the eyes of pretty lady-squirrels. Yup, shenanigans, the daily bread and butter of Pawsburg’s Old West.

As soon as they laid their eyes on me, their laughter reverberated through the silence of the afternoon. I turned around to see that the damned postman had hung a citrus wreath on my tail. The horror! The absolute abomination!

Given my love for drama, and the outrage of the present moment, I thought it best to feign a faint. Falling dramatically onto my favorite cushioned corner, I let out piteous moans, stealing the show and the laughter away from the damned citrus wreath.

Ain’t no citrus can tarnish the glory of a bulldog tail. Ain’t no postman’s pranks can steal away the charm and intrigue of our beloved Pawsburg. Stand tall, stand proud, just as the Lower Silver Siberian Summit in the distance reminds us daily.

As dusk painted the sky a hue of the champagne that cloaks me, I returned to my cordovan abode. Humans asleep, Pawsburg quiet. A usual day had passed in the heart of the Old West we call home, and sweet dreams awaited the dapper of dapperness. The promise of another day, another adventure in the rugged terrain called life.

And as I prance to the rhythm of Pawsburg’s heartbeat, the new sun shall rise, and the world will keep turning, just as the wheels of the postman’s bicycle. And all the while, beneath a cordovan ceiling, I’ll be spinning tales of the ol’ West, full of grilled chicken delights, citrus abominations, and the unwavering charm of being the town’s damsel in dapperness – Samillva.

The End.