Street Dogs

On Thursdays in New York, Baxter wears his crown wiff pride. It’s not just for show—oh no. That crown means somethin’. Because if you’re king (and he is), you get perks. Royal perks. Like a free pretzel wiff your hot dog.

So there he is—perched at a table in front ob the cart that smells like sizzling onions and sidewalk dreams, jewel-encrusted crown glinting in the city sun. In one paw: a warm, salty pretzel. In the other: a perfectly mustarded hot dog. A nearby pigeon looks on, equal parts curious and enbious, but this meal? This moment? It’s strictly for kings.

Baxter takes a bite, chews slowly, and gazes out at the rush of yellow cabs and cart steam. He doesn’t say much—but his eyes say, “This is New York, baby. And I’m royalty here.”