Oh, you thought I was just a dog? Nope, I’m just like the warm, fresh-out-of-the-oven chocolate chip cookie that grandma used to make. The kind that’s soft in the middle, a little gooey, and somehow fixes things without even trying. I’m what the professionals call “a well-rounded individual.” I call it “being excellent at everything.” I am sweet. I am loving. I am adventurous. I am also a certified goofball with Olympic-level tail wags and a heart made of warm butter. If you want a dog who is equal parts adventure, affection, and absolute lovable nonsense… congratulations. You found him. Now the only question is… are you ready for a Kong-sized amount of love in your life?
So, I guess this is the part where I casually mention that I’ve been a hidden treasure this whole time? Kong at your service. Two years old. Male. Great Pyrenees mix. Professional Heart Stealer. I sat in the shelter. Since November. Go ahead. Read that again. I’ll wait.
November. Apparently, people were out there walking past me like I was the last cookie on the plate. But you know what? Their loss. Truly. Monumentally. Because PPFT and my foster mom saw something in me and welcomed me to their fluffy butt program. And you know what? Turns out I’m not just a good dog. I’m a “how are you even real?” kind of dog. The full package. Sweet, loving, adventurous, goofy, tender-hearted — like someone checked all the boxes and then added bonus features.
When I meet a new dog, I bring immediate tail wags, polite sniffs, and strong “hi hello I would like to be your friend” energy. I don’t come in hot like a wrecking ball. I come in like, “Good afternoon, shall we frolic?” And here’s the impressive part — I have social skills. If the pack leader says, “Sir, that’s enough,” I take the hint. I respect boundaries. I understand correction. I am not out here trying to overthrow anyone’s kingdom. I am secure enough to just… vibe. I am not currently being fostered around any cats. At the shelter, I saw cats. I did not explode. I did not lose my mind. I did not file a complaint. I was friendly. Curious? Sure. But in a “oh hello, small mysterious creature” kind of way. Ah yes. The small humans. I have met them. Ages 5 and 7. Prime snack-dropping years.
And let me just say — I approve. I love kids. They are exactly my speed. High enough energy to run in the backyard with me, low enough height that gravity occasionally delivers snacks directly to my face. It’s a very efficient system. ids are very much my kind of people. They’re playful, affectionate, and think I’m cool. I agree with them. So yes. I would make an excellent family dog. I’ll run, I’ll cuddle, I’ll gently monitor snack distribution, and I’ll love them like they’re my own tiny pack members. Honestly, I’m basically built for this job.
Energy level? I’m a solid, respectable, well-balanced 7. What does that mean in real life? It means I enjoy activity. I like playing. I like yard time. I like doing things that involve movement and possibly an audience. I will happily run around with other dogs, kids, or you — especially if you pretend you’re racing me. (You won’t win. I’ll allow you to feel competitive though.) After we’ve had our fun? I’m perfectly content to settle down and exist near you like a warm, slightly oversized loaf of bread. Adventure-seeker or homebody? I enjoy outings. I enjoy the house. I enjoy existing wherever my people are. I’m versatile like that. Take me somewhere fun? I’m in. Parks, patios, family gatherings — I’m social. I like meeting people. I like being admired. I like participating in society. I will walk around like, “Yes, hello, I am part of this family. You’re welcome.” I’m loving. I’m friendly. I enjoy being included. If you’re out doing something, I’d very much like to RSVP “attending.” At heart, I’m social and loving. I like being out and about with my family. But I’m also perfectly content coming home, flopping down, and turning back into your oversized emotional support dessert. Overall temperament? I’m sweet. Like, genuinely sweet. Not fake polite. I actually care. I love my people hard. I bond. I lean. I cuddle like it’s my full-time career. I am tender-hearted. Case in point: a cat at the shelter swatted my nose once. Once. And I said, “You know what? I’ll just… be over here,” and hid in the corner like a Victorian gentleman who had been publicly insulted.Lovable? Obviously.
Balanced? Shockingly so. A jackpot dog? Without question.
Let’s talk about my future kingdom. In true independent Pyrenees fashion, I deeply enjoy a backyard. I like a good romp. I like playing with my foster brother. I like conducting very thorough inspections of every leaf, twig, blade of grass, and suspicious breeze that enters the property. These things do not sniff themselves.So yes, I would thrive best with a securely fenced yard. Somewhere I can stretch my legs, patrol respectfully, play, sniff, and make the occasional public service announcement about backyard activity. Could I survive without one? Maybe. But why deny the people what they deserve — which is watching me majestically trot around my territory like the fluffy land steward I was born to be? Potty trained? Please. I am a gentleman. Ah yes. The kennel question. At the shelter, I was in a run. Did I survive? Yes. Did I love it? Let’s not be dramatic — it was not my favorite era. So now my foster family is trying their hardest not to kennel me — because once you’ve had a taste of freedom and couches and human proximity, it’s hard to go back to metal bars and fluorescent lighting. Do I bark? I prefer the term Neighborhood News Correspondent. Look, someone has to keep you informed. But here’s the thing — I’m not barking to be chaotic. I’m barking because I care. I want you to know what’s happening in your world. I am proactive. Vigilant. Committed. Am I a silent houseplant? No. Am I a loyal, slightly dramatic security system with fluffy features? Absolutely.
Alright. Deep breath. This is the part where I pretend to be modest.
Listen… I know I sat in a shelter since November. I know people walked past me like I was the last slice of plain bread at a bakery. And that’s fine. Because clearly I was being reserved for someone with excellent taste. If you’re sitting there thinking, “Wow, this magnificent creature should be mine,” congratulations on your self-awareness. The next step is to fill out an adoption application at https://www.pyrpawsandfluffytailsrescue.com/adoption-app like a responsible adult. You fill it out. The nice rescue people send it to my foster family. They review it. They nod thoughtfully. They decide if you are worthy of this level of excellence. And then — and only then — you may come pick me up in Yukon. That’s right. I’m not teleporting. I’m not Ubering. You will drive to Yukon like the dedicated future dog parent you are.
I’ve waited since November. You can handle a short drive.
Fill out the app.
Come to Yukon.
Hit the jackpot.
Kong
