Barnaby was a scruffy terrier with a tongue that felt like sandpaper. It was the hottest afternoon of the year, and his water bowl back home was three miles away. Every puddle in the park had evaporated into cracked mud, and the heavy humidity made his fur feel like a lead coat.
He trotted toward a picnic bench where he saw a glass pitcher. Standing on his hind legs, Barnaby peered in—it was half-full of cool water—but the neck was far too narrow for his snout. He tried to tip it over, but the glass was heavy and stubborn.
Remembering a trick he'd seen a clever crow perform, Barnaby scanned the ground. He began scooping up smooth pebbles with his mouth, dropping them into the pitcher one by one. Clink. Clink. Clink.
Slowly, the water level rose. The stones displaced the liquid, pushing it toward the rim. After a dozen pebbles, the water was finally within reach. Barnaby lapped it up greedily, the cool relief washing away the heat of the day. Persistence, he decided, was just as important as a good bark.
Would you like me to rewrite this story from the perspective of the thirsty dog himself?.