Hey there,

It’s your favorite bulldog-in-the-city, Pumpkin. Strutting through Pawsburg, cracking canine jokes with my pals, and stirring up squirrelly trouble in the White Westie Woods. Call me the bark heart of our tale, the anchor in a dog’s life sitcom.

Sniffs and Wags,
Pumpkin.🐾

Listen to the story here

It was the sort of day in Pawsburg when trees whispered old stories through their leaves and the wind seemed intent on whisking everything away. Even the cobblestones of East Bulldog Bay clacked together, as if giggling over an unheard canine joke. “What’s so funny?” I asked as I strolled along, a widowed bird of passage lugging an old faded denim ball in my mouth, signature Pumpkin style.

Having arrived early to the rendezvous, I perched in a corner at Paws-A-Latte, my favorite haunt. The smell of (human) coffee bean tangoed with the signature scent of fresh-baked dog biscuits. Even a bulldog’s breakfast never did feel so aromatic.

Glancing out of the window, the vista of Lower Golden Gate Gardens spread across the city like a Persian rug. Canine figures darted among the silver trees, tails wagging away the gloom. With a noticeable absence of humans, dogs reclaimed the forgotten freedom, a revolt both solemn and joyful.

Listening to the yapping stories around me – of stolen squeaky toys and misdirected letters – even an English bulldog couldn’t resist a chuckle. “What good would it be”, I thought, “if a beast can’t be silly every once in a while?”

In the middle of Pawsburg’s buzz, the door creaked open and in pranced Sandy, her Irish Setter’s coat glowing like a fiery sunset. “Mrrow, Pumpkin,” she barked, attempting to mimic the disdainful guttural holler of the neighborhood cat. I snorted amusedly. The ludicrous hound was a never-ending source of entertainment.

“Where is your stick-in-the-mud fellow, Sandy?” I inquired after Leo, the twilighting vizsla, our permanent co-conspirator.

Sandy winked at me, gesturing with her snout towards the doorway, where a familiar coppery silhouette emerged, completing our trio. We shared greeting wag-tails, Leo’s slower movements contrasting Sandy’s exuberant wiggle and my curt half-hearted swish. Yet, beneath the motley veneer, the three of us shared a bond tighter than a dog’s grip on a juicy bone.

With misadventure in the air and joy sewn into our coats, we made our way to Ruff-n-Ready. Feasting on the house favorite – chicken, (hold the broccoli for yours truly) – we made plans for the day. The Eastern White Westie Woods warranted a visit. Squirrels, be forewarned!

In the heart of Pawsburg, our tales persist, mingling with the wind, echoing under the footpaws of every hound. We are but players on the stage, performing our own comedies, tragedies, and tragi-comedies. Aren’t we all, in the end, the stuff that dog treats are made of?

The End.