The Day My Dog Ran for Mayor.

In the town of Muffinville, where the annual highlight was the Great Jam Jar Toss and the mayor’s podium doubled as a squirrel-watching perch, life was anything but ordinary. The townsfolk wore mismatched socks on Tuesdays, argued passionately about the merits of crunchy vs. smooth peanut butter, and once elected a rubber duck as honorary town treasurer. So, when my golden retriever, Waffles, ended up on the mayoral ballot, no one batted an eye. At first.

It all began at the monthly town meeting, held in the cluttered Muffinville Community Center (which also served as a yoga studio for goats). Mayor Higginbottom, a man whose most notable achievement was banning broccoli from public buildings, announced his retirement due to “chronic naptime disruptions.” As the council scribe, I fumbled with the nomination forms, only to spill coffee on them. In the chaos, Waffles—ever the opportunist—snatched a form and paraded it around like a trophy, eliciting cheers. Councilwoman Mabel, squinting through her kaleidoscope glasses, misread the smudged ink. “Waffles Fitzpaws? A fine nominee!” she declared. And just like that, my dog was running for mayor.

Campaign season erupted like a shaken soda can. Waffles’ platform was simple: More naps! More squirrels! More bacon-flavored everything! His slogan, “A Paw-some Future for Muffinville!” adorned bone-shaped posters. His first “speech” involved him chasing his tail in front of Town Hall while I, as his reluctant campaign manager, tossed treats to a crowd chanting, “Four legs, one dream!”

But the real chaos began when rivals tried to “outdog” him. Former librarian Mr. Peabody, armed with a labradoodle wig, pledged to “dig up the truth” (while literally digging holes in the park). Entrepreneur Gloria Finklebottom rolled out a fleet of food trucks serving “Puppuccinos and Kibble Tapas,” insisting she’d “make Muffinville the bark of the nation.” Even Mrs. Whiskerton, the town’s cat lady, entered the race with her Persian, Sir Fluffington III, promising “order and grace.” Sir Fluffington responded by knocking over a podium, which only boosted Waffles’ poll numbers.

The debates were… unconventional. Held at the Dog Park Arena, candidates were asked pressing questions like, “How will you address the leash law loophole?” and “Do you support mandatory belly rubs?” Waffles, napping mid-stage, stole the show with a snore that sounded suspiciously like “treats for all.” Gloria, in a desperate bid, barked the national anthem. Mr. Peabody fetched a stick and buried it in the town’s budget report. The crowd went wild.

By election day, Muffinville was divided—not by policy, but by chew toy preferences. Yet, as Waffles trotted into the polling booth (a fire hydrant-shaped ballot box), something shifted. The townsfolk, weary of empty promises and endless debates, found themselves disarmed by his shameless naps and unwavering loyalty. “He’s honest,” muttered Old Joe, the town grump. “Doesn’t lie about fixing potholes. Just… doesn’t fix ’em. Refreshing!”

When the results were announced—Waffles in a landslide—the town erupted in howls of joy. His first act as mayor? A ceremonial belly rub at the inaugural bone-chewing ceremony. Council meetings now feature strategic squirrel-chasing breaks, and veto power is exercised by peeing on unpopular proposals (a system the town clerk admits is “surprisingly efficient”).

As for the humans? We’ve learned to laugh at ourselves. Turns out, when politics goes to the dogs, the real joke was taking ourselves so seriously all along. And as Waffles snoozes on his mayoral beanbag, I can’t help but think: maybe a little more wagging and a little less barking isn’t such a bad way to run the world.

The End.

P.S. The potholes remain, but happiness ratings? Through the roof.