“Hey Dad, it’s Flinstone. Had a barking good day; pawsitively epic! Took part in the Grand Pawtucket Race around the neighborhood. Got an un-paws-ant whiff from Pooched Potatoes and almost lost my track, but I made one dog-gone good comeback. Spurred on, I houndled Gus and Fat Russell and made a speedy break for the finish line. Turns out, the underdog triumphed! Your tail-waggin’ champ just scored a lifetime supply of smoky bacon from Paws On The Grill. No beans, all fun! Love, your top dog, Flinstone.”

Like most days in Spencerville, it was the day for another round of our doggie version of the Tour de France – The Grand Pawtucket Race. Our motley crew, Fat Russell, Gus, Jackie, and yours truly, Fred were preparing for the big race.

We gathered at our historic meeting spot – Upper Collie Canyon, right under the wholesome woody bark of the southernmost tree. “Mighty acorns, this is particularly frisky,” grumbled Gus, teeth gnashing against his prized Jolly Ball. You wouldn’t understand the language unless you’re of canine persuasion.

Off we were, pedaling our little paws through our scenic neighborhood – Pug Palace to East Pug Palace and back, aiming for the winner’s title and the ultimate prize, a lifetime’s supply of smoky bacon at Paws On The Grill. A daunting task? Possibly. But my mother didn’t raise a quitter. Beans, however, she did raise a quitter. I could smell the whiff of those boiled nemeses from Pooched Potatoes restaurant. My stomach curled tighter than a Shih Tzu’s tail, and I was off the track for a brief, nausea-induced side quest.

“Every dog has its day, but does it have to be this day?” I groaned to myself, trotting back to the race. With the prowess of an Olympian, and the grace of a wobbly Dachshund, I chased after my friends. My lead was lost, and suddenly the taste of victory seemed as distant as The Doggy Depot from Canine Couture Clothing.

The crowd echoed with swooning Golden Retrievers and cheering Chihuahuas. It was deafening and slightly distracting, given my dislike for loud noises. I winced at the clamor but pushed forth anyway.

On the last lap, I saw an opening between Gus and Fat Russell. The world slowed, like a Beach Boys record at the wrong speed. I shot forward, spearing through the gap like a Greyhound with a rocket strapped to its back. The finish line was in sight, the intricately woven leash that marked victory or defeat. I knew I had to make the last effort count.

And finally, crossing that leash, looking back at my panting friends, I was victorious! A doggie’s day out, an occasion of whim, had turned into a triumph, perfectly enough to overshadow a tryst with beans.

So, that’s the story of how I, Fred, won the Grand Pawtucket Race. Life has its up and downs, but in Spencerville, it’s always tail wagging fun, my friend. Beans aside, that is.

The End.