Note from Garth: OK, so he’s been bugging me for the past year to write for the Lake Report. Even caught him sniffing around ChatGPT. Now I’m told he has something urgent for this time of year. I give in. Here’s my dog, Cody the Chow. Do not embarrass me …

Finally. The only embarrassing part, pal, is that it took this long.

It’s also embarrassing how you’ve been yapping, barking and bitching (actually, I like bitches) about Royal George, the Shaw guys, Parliament Oak, Marotta, Airbnb and local politics. Get a grip. Life in NOTL is perfect. Just follow me around town.

Trees anchor this place. Love ’em. Soaring, huge, majestic, perfect for a whizz. Best of all, the trees bring squirrels. Unleashed, I could catch them all. (We have to discuss this bondage thing.)

This town also has horses — as workers, not decorations. They seem proud and content, while smelling awesome. Big John with the hairy hooves rocks. We sniffed.

The horses help bring the tourists, of course. In this past year of human turmoil, doubts, fears and quiet conflict, the people from Ohio, New York, Pennsylvania, Washington, Florida and across America were kind.

They seemed genuinely honoured to be here, in a place of less drama and more hope. I can’t even count the number of selfies that ensued on Queen Street.

Lying in the doorway of Nina’s is an ideal place to meet people, as I make them climb over me to get to the gelato. It’s hard to believe how much of that stuff gets scarfed down, or how challenged the young women are who serve it here, or in Carlotta’s or Pistacchio’s.

But despite the crush of people and the demands, they all let me hang out. They give me time and affection. They’re kind, patient and cheerful — even if we do make them live in Thorold or St. Catharines, for lack of decent, affordable rental housing. (Now I sound like him.)

Everywhere my stumpy legs and XXL paws take me in this town, it’s the same. From the staff smoking area in the alley beside the Irish Harp to the liver treats in the lobby of Bosley Real Estate next door to Aura restaurant, where Nittin and Anjna unfailingly appear with a bowl of fresh water — it’s a sense of belonging.

NOTL may attract three million visitors a year, but at its heart are caring, decent people always finding time for a pet, a smile and a stroke of my incredibly handsome fur.

Karen at the Viking shop invites me in and kneels beside me. Customers can wait. Across the street at Upper Canada Native Art, Tom is just as welcoming — although he always tells people, “The dog is for sale today. Great bargain.” In your dreams. Priceless.

The water bowl is always clean and full at Balzac’s and the staff showed us where to refill it when they’re busy. The door at Ara shoes always opens for me. And at Beau Chapeau they call me their greeter — so I lie on the carpet obstructing all the shoppers, harvesting affection under the “No Drinks, Food or Dogs Allowed” sign.

Then, if you ever need to be  reminded why NOTL is perfect, meet me at the Stagecoach.

Every morning, in the dark, my friends await me inside Helen’s landmark restaurant. David is always there, and Carol who knows exactly how to break apart the Milk-Bone (red ones only, please) for my delicate, giant chops. Every morning the waitresses step around me as I sup on the silver bowl of ice and water that follows the treat.

But it’s not just moi. The dogs of the ’hood have their turn, too — like Dusty, Parker, Bobby, Michou and Daisy, who hoovers every cookie within range. It’s this generosity and warmth that defines the business, as it does the street, the neighbourhood and beyond.

I may only be 23 inches tall and four years old, but trust me. We live in paradise.