Amigos, amis, buddies and chums,

We'll all be friends forever, no matter what comes

'PAW Patrol ready for action, Ryder, Sir.'

Chase says his line, as always. We arrange ourselves in the line, as always. Skye, then Rocky, then Chase, then Rubble, then Me, then Marshall. Ryder thanks us for hurrying, then tells us the emergency. It's something ridiculous as ever, something basic common sense could have prevented; Captain Turbot's put a hole in his boat again and it's sinking. It doesn't occur to me that someone ought to take away his boat license at this point, because I'm young, I'm naive, and I'm hopeful. It's going to be me, this time. It has to be me, this time. It's a water-based rescue, I'm the team's water-safety dog, so Ryder has to choose me. It's only logical. I can barely remember the last time I was selected for a mission and I need this. I need this so badly so I can be useful like the rest, so I can be a good pup, because good pups help people.

'Rocky, I need you to use your tools to help fix Captain Turbot's boat.'

'Green means go!'

'Chase, I'll need you to use your megaphone to keep other passing boats away from the crash site.'

'Chase is on the case.'

'And Skye, I'll need you to use your harness to lift Captain Turbot to safety.'

'Let's take to the sky!'

'Alright, PAW Patrol is on a roll.'

I sit there, watching the four disappear to their vehicles. I'm confused. No, I'm utterly baffled. The other unselected disperse, unperturbed, staying close in case Ryder calls again, and I'm still just sitting there. Why wasn't I chosen? There must have been some mistake. I'm the water dog, the one trained in ocean patrolling and rescue, the one who drives a hovercraft, and I'm still here, in the Lookout. I don't understand why Ryder would pass me up like this. Then, a little charm appears in my mind and flashes like neon: Ryder will realise when he gets there. He'll realise he needs me and he'll call. It's fine. I just need to wait a little while. I just need to wait and he'll call. But he never does.

- From Dog Under: My Life in the PAW Patrol by Zuma (p.26)

NOW

It was funny how, sometimes, the colours of the ocean and the sky came so close to matching that they almost blended into a single sheet of blue across the world. The summer season was fast approaching, which meant the weather was improving, which meant the beaches would soon be swarmed with the public for the next four months or so. Zuma ran through the to-do list in his head once more. He'd consulted with the supervisors about upcoming shift rotas, sat through every budget meeting so far, conducted his usual checks of the beach and the tides (today was a safe day, for now, at least), and had made sure the lifesaving policies were up to date. He still had an upcoming liaison with the stakeholders, but he would worry about that another time.

From his office window, Zuma spied a flock of gulls passing overhead, making a direct line for the horizon. He watched them until they faded amongst the clouds, their cries silenced in the breeze. It was a beautiful day, he couldn't deny it. The true summer heat hadn't hit them just yet, so there wasn't too many on the beach. Some had dogs with them, some had kids, a few had both. No one was in the water yet, which he had to admit, he preferred. Less for him and his team to worry about. It was still early doors so the surfers, paddle boarders, and snorkelers wouldn't start appearing until later. It gave the lifeguards on duty a moment to prepare themselves, at the very least. He checked the rota pinned to the cork board on the wall. Sadie and Blaze were the supervisors on shift today. Below them was Trent and Dusty currently patrolling the West sector, with Jo and Red on the East.

Not long after he'd joined the lifeguard service, Zuma had introduced what some had called a "revolutionary" concept of re-organising lifeguard patrol teams into specific pairs - one dog and one human. It had taken some convincing to the board of directors; but using his experience in the PAW Patrol as proof of its effectiveness, they had agreed to allow it as an 'experimental technique' and would be monitoring the results closely. The results, naturally, had spoken for themselves, and ten years later almost every lifeguard facility he knew of was implementing the same staff structure. Everything on his beach was running smoothly so far, just the way he liked it. He wondered how much longer it would last. Less than ten minutes, apparently, as there suddenly came a knock on the door. It opened before he even said anything.

'Guess who?' Came a familiar voice and Zuma had to stop himself from instinctivley groaning out load as he swivelled around in his chair.

A young-ish man waltzed into the office. His skin was a deep tan and his short, wavy hair was coal black and swept back from his forehead. He was dressed more casually than Zuma had ever seen, sporting a pale blue summer shirt that matched his eyes and khakis.

'Bailey?' Zuma said incredulously. 'What the hell are you doing here?'

Bailey grinned, the whiteness of his teeth clashing with his complexion. 'Aw, Zuma, anyone would think you weren't happy to see me.'

'I'm...just surprised. Not every day your agent comes to your office...on the beach...in a different state.'

'Ah, ah,' Bailey said, raising a finger, 'I'm not your agent anymore, am I? Actually, I'm taking some vacation time. Here I am in...whatever this place is called, seeing the sights, etcetera, when I suddenly remember this is where you've relocated to live out your Bondi Beach Rescue fantasy, so I thought I'd come say hi real quick.'

'Uh, huh,' Zuma said, neither convinced nor impressed. The only two things Bailey did "real quick" were signing deals and finishing martinis. 'Crazy coinsidence.'

'So,' Bailey said, ignoring him and gazing around the office. 'This is where the magic happens, huh?' He walked over to Zuma's desk, briefly inspected the paperwork scattered across its surface, ran a finger along it and frowned. 'You got a cleaner for this place? You should get a cleaner.'

'It's a lifeguard facility, not a hotel,' Zuma replied. 'Look, not to be rude or anything, but I'm working right now. Can this wait 'till another time?'

A look of exaggerated hurt plastered itself on Bailey's face and he stepped back. 'Oh, I see. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude on the chief lifeguard's busy schedule.'

'Manager,' Zuma corrected under his breath.

'It's fine, I can see when I'm not wanted. I'll just be leaving, then.' He began to make his way to the door. Slowly. 'It's not like I took time out of my vacation to come and see an old friend or anything. I'll see you later. Or not. Who knows, really.' He still hadn't actually made it to the door yet.

Zuma sighed. 'Bailey, you know that's not what I meant. Of course, I'm happy to see you, it's just-'

'Great!' Bailey said, immediately brightening and, in the time it took Zuma to blink, he was back at the desk, drumming his fingers on it excitedly. 'Because, I've actually got some big news. Big, big news.'

'...Oh?' As much as Zuma needed him gone from his office, there was a traitorous part of him that was curious as to which of the million possible directions this was heading.

'Yep, yep! Just wait, you're gonna freak!' He hooked his foot around the spare chair in the corner of the office and dragged it noisily to the desk in one fluid movement. 'Okay, so I was on the phone with the chief editor of Flyinghouse-'

'I thought you said you were on vacation.'

'Oh, Zuma, you know me; every day's a work day. Anyway, I was on the phone with him and, get this: Dog Under is about to hit its ten-year anniversary!'

'Oh...' Zuma said and, for a moment, he suddenly felt a lot older than he had a moment ago. Had it really been ten years already? '...Okay?'

'So,' Bailey went on, 'they want to re-release the book, a whole anniversary-edition type thing, y'know? All the bestsellers do it. And, they're even wanting to organise another book tour to celebrate the occasion, get people talking about it again, the whole shebang! Isn't that amazing?' He was beaming now and practically vibrating with excitement.

Zuma, meanwhile, had been hit with a barrage of conflicting feelings that swarmed him like a mass of angry bees. One of them, the easiest to address in the moment, was confusion.

'Hold up,' he said, raising a paw. 'Why was the chief editor telling you this? Doesn't he know you're not my agent?'

'Oh, sure. He and I go way back. I told him I haven't worked for you in years, but he thought that if anyone could convince you, it would be me. Smart guy, really.'

Zuma's ears immediately flattened themselves further and his lip curled with the beginnings of a growl. 'So, that's why you're really here: Work. I figured as much.'

Bailey raised his hands in surrender. 'Okay, before you tell me where to shove it, just hear me out. Please. Two minutes. Give me two minutes and then I'll be out of your fur, I promise. Scout's honour and all that.'

Zuma considered him narrowly, then looked out the window. He spotted Trent and Dusty in the distance watching a group of bodyboarders that had just arrived. It was still low tide. He sighed.

'Two minutes. That's all you're getting.'

'Alright, I've been talking with a PR team and we have ideas,' Bailey said, wasting no time and clapping his hands together eagerly. 'We keep it relatively low-key; local bookstores, libraries, that kind of thing. Nothing too big or it'll come across as narcissistic. I know how you feel about talkshows so we'll avoid those for the most part, a few one-to-one interviews scattered around here and there, that's all. We'll announce the whole thing on social media first, drum up the momentum, and keep an eye on the general response. That way we can hopefully avoid any...drama, like last time. Obviously, we want your return to be a purely positive thing-'

'Return?' Zuma repeated. 'Bailey, dude, I'm not making some kind of celebrity comeback. That "drama"? That was my life, and it was hell!'

'I know, I know,' Bailey said placatingly, 'and I never want you to have to go through that again, which is why I'd put things in place to avoid it as much as possible. Good press only. Of course, that would only be if I was representing you, obviously...'

'...Subtle,' Zuma said flatly.

'Oh, come on, Zuma. Name one time I ever let you down. Go on, I'll wait.'

Zuma had no answer to that because, truthfully, there was none. As pushy, eccentric, and ambitious as Bailey was, he'd actually been fiercely competent whilst representing Zuma. He was a big part of why Dog Under: My Life in the PAW Patrol had managed to not only reach top of the bestsellers list, but remain there for weeks. He'd worked with publicists to organise Zuma's first tour, which had been a roaring success, booked him onto the biggest shows, and done what he could to shield him from the uglier side of publicity after the book's release, especially regarding the other PAW Patrol members and their fans. Furthermore, Zuma liked Bailey more than he would admit. He was fun to be around, had never screwed him over on anything, and generally wasn't a complete asshole like so many in his industry were.

'Exactly,' Bailey said, taking triumph in Zuma's silence. 'So? What do you think?'

THEN

'Alright, tonight we have a very special guest...'

Be cool, Zuma thought to himself. His nerves were on the brink of getting the better of him and he needed to relax.

'...He's not only a trained professional in ocean rescue but also a bestselling author with his new book Dog Under: My Life in the PAW Patrol...'

Ex-member, Zuma corrected in his head, then shook it. Be cool.

'...all the way from Adventure Bay...'

Be cool, be cool, be cool.

'...please welcome, Zuma!'

The applause was thunderous, cascading over Zuma as he trotted onto the stage, smiling like an idiot. The host, Jim Jenkins, a tall, well-dressed man with big hair, shook his paw and thanked him for coming on the show and Zuma thanked him for having him and everything was happening too fast and it was all too much-

Jim gestured for him to take a seat and Zuma did so, hopping up onto the comfortable armchair facing the host's desk. He found it difficult to stop smiling when an entire room was cheering for you and his nerves began to slowly ebb away.

'First of all,' Jim said after the noise had completely died down, 'I just want to say how much I loved this book.' He produced a hardback copy and propped it up against his desk. 'I read the whole thing in two nights, y'know I just couldn't put it down!'

'Thank you,' Zuma said.

'You were so transparent in your writing, it was so...powerful, y'know, it was just remarkable.'

'Thank you so much,' Zuma said over another round of applause. He felt his face beginning to flush and was grateful he had layers of fur to hide under.

'Now,' Jim went on, 'in the book, you detail your life in the PAW Patrol and your experiences during that time. Can I just ask, for anyone watching who hasn't yet read the book, you were how old when you joined the PAW Patrol?'

'I was six. Six-years-old. Fourteen years ago.'

There were some gasps and mutterings from the audience.

'Six-years-old,' Jim repeated with a hint of incredulity in his voice, 'and you were...well, you were out saving people!'

'Yeah, it was, uh...it was a lot,' Zuma said with a chuckle. The audience laughed with him, then clapped again.

'That is crazy! Now, the book itself has done extremely well. It's been at the top of the New York Times Bestsellers List for two consecutive weeks and keeps selling out,' Jim said, having to raise his voice over yet another round of cheers and clapping from the audience. 'What does it feel like knowing that so many people are connecting to your story in so many different ways?'

'Honestly,' Zuma replied, 'it's been incredible. Like, I hoped the book would do well, of course, but I had no idea it would get this kind of reception. I'm just...so grateful that so many people are connecting with it and hopefully finding their own healing in it as well. Y'know, I've seen some of things people are posting online, saying how much they relate to it - and not just dogs, but humans and cats and everyone - and I'm like "Wow...thanks, dudes!"'

Jim laughed, and so did the rest of the building. The interview went on, Jim asking about various aspects of the book and Zuma's process, and Zuma giving answers without going into too much detail. When it was over, Zuma left the stage, waving at the audience as they cheered him and the cameras cut.

'You were awesome, as usual,' Bailey said gleefully when he was safely backstage. His PR team were there as well and they agreed feverishly.

'Thanks,' was all Zuma could get out before one of the assistants, Gemma, approached him from out of nowhere.

'You've got a call,' she said, holding a black cellphone out towards him.

'Who is it?'

'Chase...from the PAW Patrol,' she replied with a touch of reverence, as if it was Beyonce calling. 'I told him you were really busy but he said it's urgent.'

'Oh,' Zuma's heart sank a little. 'Thanks, Gemma.'

Zuma took the phone in his mouth, signalled to Bailey that everything was fine, and went to find a more private spot. He ended up having to settle for a maintenance closet. He cleared his throat before speaking.

'...Hello?'

'Hey.' In that one single word, Zuma was given a clear picture of how Chase was feeling.

'What's up, Chase?'

'"What's up?"' Chase parroted unpleasantly. 'Gee, Zuma, I don't know. Maybe I just wanted to say hi, catch up. Or maybe I'm just desperate to make you happy, y'know, since I have a "chronic case of people-pleaser syndrome" which stems from how "insecure" and "controlling" I am.'

Zuma closed his eyes. 'Chase-'

'Y'know, when you mentioned you were writing a book, this wasn't exactly what I pictured. What the hell is your problem? I can't believe you wrote a goddamn smear campaign on us!'

'That's not what-'

'Oh, here's my favourite part: "Chase sits in the centre of the group, of course. His freshly-polished collar gleams almost as brightly as the smug, self-righteous expression on his face. He knows he's the best, the favourite, the golden pup, and the rest of us are his backup, the scenery for his stage." Excuse me? What the hell is that even supposed to mean? Is that seriously how you see me? Some arrogant brown nose? Who the hell do you think you are to say that about me?'

'How did you even get this number?' Zuma snapped, hackles rising. He was experiencing a fast comedown from the interview and would've preferred to have this...conversation literally any other time.

Chase snorted. 'I've got contacts too, asshole. It wasn't exactly hard. Oh, and I notice you didn't write as much trash about Rocky as the rest of us, that was real nice of you. You got some nerve accusing Ryder of playing favourites.'

Suddenly, with a viciousness wholly alien to him, Zuma's temper flared.

'Do you think I made any of it up?' He snarled into the phone. 'Do you honestly think I had to exaggerate any of the stuff I wrote? Use that oh-so-special detective brain of yours and think back across the last fourteen years.'

'What the hell are you-'

'Do you have any idea what it was like being me? Having to work with dogs like you? Constantly playing seventh fiddle? Being denied missions? Being excluded from publicity whilst everyone else is paraded around like celebrities? Being nicknamed 'The Orange One' because no one even remembers your goddamn name? Of course you don't, Chase, and y'know why? Because you were the favourite, the golden pup, the arrogant brown nose who practically licked Ryder's feet every chance you got! You make me sick! Every damn thing I said about you and the others is true, and if you can't see that then try looking in the mirror.'

'Oh, screw you, Zuma!' Chase snarled.

'Screw, you!' Zuma snarled back and brought his paw down so hard on the hangup button that the screen cracked.

The silence of the closet screamed in Zuma's ears. His fur felt stiff and coarse, his tail was rigid, and his claws dug into the floor painfully. He squeezed his eyes shut, counted to ten in his head, and tried to fight back the urge to cry.