The Dogfather Chronicles: A Tail of Pawsburg’s Petmother Reign: A Bazinga PawWord Story

Hey Hooman! Bazinga here, lady-boss of Pawsburg. Just another day running the town, sniffing out mischief, and maintaining dog-order. Enjoying some squeaky duck zen moments in between. Current status? Tail wagging and a mouth full of salmon-burger. Remember, it’s not personal. It’s pupness. 😎🐾🦴

Listen to the story here

Call me the Dogfather, or rather, the Petmother–Bazinga, the Australian Shepherd. Some may raise a brow at the idea of a girl dog running things in Pawsburg, but let me tell you, we canines don’t just roll over for the patriarchy.

The first time I set paw on Red Beagle Beach, I experienced an epiphany. With the salty breeze stirring my multi-colored coat, I knew, that Pawsburg was where I was meant to be. It wasn’t the vast expanse of free land or the unending store of squeaky ducks–it was possibilities that thrilled me. And likely, the absence of olives.

Life in Pawsburg was a yapping riot, a condiment-laced doggy treat, and an indulgence in PURE shenanigans. I enjoyed the company of Berry, the guy could sniff out a hidden bone anywhere, and Rumple was superb when it came to smuggling kibbles. Together, we reigned over Pawsburg.

But this “adventure-tinged” lifestyle had duties too. Being the lady-boss of Pawsburg was essentially like a full-time job that paid in rubber ducks and tail wagging sessions. And let me tell you; it was worth it.

Despite my independence streak, I found comfort in mingling with my subordinates at Bow Wow Burgers–they loaded those burgers up with canned salmon, my absolute favorite. Meals like that, stories shared over a dish of Yappy Yogurt – every bit made up a symphony of savory extravagance.

On many an occasion, after spending my day managing territories, offering a snarl for those who overstepped boundaries, my soirees would lead me to Lower Golden Gate Gardens. You see, when a dog’s day job is sniffing out crummy attempts to overthrow her rule, she needs an outlet. For me, it was my squeaky, rubber duck.

It wasn’t just a toy. It was similar to what an expensive glass of whiskey and a hefty Cuban cigar was to a certain horse-head scattering mogul in that old movie Mom used to watch— a symbol. Sure, Rumple didn’t quite understand my fascination, but do St. Bernards ever understand anything beyond head pets and cuddling?

Newbies to Pawsburg would often pace into The Groom Room and Spa for Paws expecting just a regular grooming and turn up lopsided with a surprise haircut. No pet realized until it was too late that every grooming at Spa for Paws came with a complementary “initiation haircut” as a silent marker of our dominion.

Running the town with a paw of iron hidden under a pile of fur, meeting threats with a growl, I found family, happiness, and a kingdom in Pawsburg. Remember, it’s not personal. It’s pupness.

The End.