My name is Rover and I’m a good pup. This is my truth.
My last day at the Paw Patrol was October 29th, 2021, a Friday I will never forget. Ryder buzzed my black-and-white pup tag while I enjoyed a mid-afternoon Milk-Bone down by the pier at Adventure Bay.
“Ryder needs us!” I yelled to no one in particular. I dropped my bone and sprinted to The Lookout. It didn’t matter if aliens invaded Adventure Bay or if Mayor Goodway forgot where she put her keys. When Ryder buzzed your pup tag, you got your ass in gear, lest the metrics show that perhaps you weren’t as good a pup as you could be.
I knew something was wrong when I arrived at The Lookout alone. When the elevator doors opened, I saw Ryder, flanked by HR, a crowd of lawyers in suits with yellow legal pads at the ready, and a couple of huge bulldogs with SECURITY on their collars and rings in their noses. To my right stood a large, cardboard box with my vehicle, a postal service mail truck, stuffed inside.
“Uh… rain or shine, Rover’s always on time!” I squeaked, trying to fake a smile (Ryder always liked it when we smiled. He said we looked like “kitties” when we didn’t smile… but he didn’t say “kitties”).
“Rover, we’ve decided to relieve you of your duties as a member of the Paw Patrol, effective immediately. You’ve performed far below the expectations of our elite organization. Furthermore, you’re a bad pup. Please collect your mail truck and security will escort you out.”
HR littered my paperwork with lies.
“Failure to sit, heel, fetch, or drive the high-tech vehicle provided to him.”
“Urination on the mayor’s fire hydrant.”
“Failure to laugh at Marshall’s daily joke.”
“Sniffed Skye’s butt.”
But I knew the real reason. Ryder might play the role of boy tech genius and cheerful puppy trainer when the cameras roll. But behind the scenes, he is a ruthless, domineering, abusive despot. And I was the only pup who dared to speak up. You know that’s in our contracts too, right? Speak only when Ryder says “SPEAK?” Well now is Rover’s time to speak, lest another stray pup with ambition and dreams of giving back to his community fall into the same trap that I did.
I should’ve known Paw Patrol was toxic on my first day when Ryder encouraged the pups to call me by my new nickname: Mr. Smashed Face. For a French bulldog like me, it was cruel and humiliating. I knew I didn’t look like every dog out there. My short muzzle made it hard for me to breathe, let alone eat out of the standard-issue Paw Patrol dog bowls designed for Chase’s chiseled face (that handsome son of a bitch). On my first day, I realized that Ryder was a dog bigot.
At first, I tried to tag along with the clear leaders of the group, Chase and Marshall. They were cool and confident, perfect mentors for an up-and-coming mail pup like me… until the hazing started. They forced me to pound kibble and run naked through the streets until I barfed onto Mr. Porter’s doormat one night. Then they dressed me like a cat and made me walk into Mayor Humdinger’s office in Foggy Bottom to do whatever he and his crew wanted. What happens in Foggy Bottom stays in Foggy Bottom… or at least that’s what I tell myself when I whimper into my doggie mat at night.
Paw Patrol marginalized me from Day One, and it only grew worse from there. Ryder rarely selected me for missions, and he always had an excuse ready. “You’re just too small and fat for this one.” “Ground mail delivery is a dying industry. That’s why Skye is flying this package in a drone.” Or the worst one, “Hey guys, I think Mr. Smashed Face is upset! Look, he’s gonna cry! He looks like he just ran into a sliding glass door! Poor Mr. Smashed Face, Bahahaha!”
They never trained me properly, and they never gave me the chance to bring my full self to work. Publicly, you hear him tell us “You’re all good pups!” But it was all a lie. To be a good pup, you had to look like Chase or Marshall, or else keep your nose down and take the beatings with a smile and a cheery “bark.” One day I saw Chase pee on a fire hydrant. So, I pulled up to the next one and lifted my leg. Mid-stream, Ryder kicked me in the ribs and started beating me with my own pup tag. “This will NEVER be your territory, Mr. Smashed Face!” he said. Then he pissed on it himself. I filed a complaint with Spin Master, the toy company pulling the strings behind Ryder’s domain. They assured me that they took every complaint seriously and that they would open a full and transparent investigation. Three days later I was pushing my box of belongings out the door of The Lookout for the last time.
Ryder is a tyrant, enabled by the evil Spin Master Corporation. And those other pups, if they dared to speak, would say the same thing. Someone ask Skye how much she gets paid. She’s the only pup that can fly, but I bet she makes half of what that crotch-sniffer Chase makes. Or someone ask Rubble if he likes his behind-closed-doors nickname, “Bucktooth Fatasaurus.” His skill set is far more essential than that ass clown, Marshall’s, but Ryder made it clear how far you can go in this world with a short muzzle. His favorites, the lean, pretty bro dogs, are the picture of pup power and privilege.
But I, Rover, am a good pup, and I will not whimper into the night without a fight. The world needs to know the truth about their beloved Paw Patrol, and it all starts at the top with Ryder. If you’re a boy wonder tech wizard, you don’t get funding for a state-of-the-art dog tower, a fancy RV, a boat, and Transformer-level vehicles for your puppies without playing some dirty politics at some point. And Ryder, I will sniff you out. You and your “good ol’ boys” Chase and Marshall had better lawyer up. Rover is on a roll now, and I’ll see you in court.
On the double.
