“Hey Mom, just another typical day in Pawsburgh. Managed to save a Shih Tzu from the raging river with Sid Sloth’s squeaking assistance. I may smell like steak, but I tell you, heroics work up an appetite. Thinking of chicken tonight. Much Love, Merle Marvel Millie.”

Listen to the story here.
They say that if I’m very still, and the wind’s blowing just right, I can hear Pawsburgh from here. That’s where Millie is likely off to right now. You see, Pawsburgh is no ordinary place and Millie is no ordinary bitch. No, sir!

Millie, that delightful merle-colored Olde English Bulldogge, blue and brown eyes dancing with life, was all but ordinary. Why, the mere scent of chicken would set her spirit dancing and tail wagging as if she were auditioning for a canine ballet.

Each night, when the human world faded into the shadows, our Pawsburgh journey would begin. Dalmatian Desert, Shih Tzu Stadium, or the Southern Golden Retriever River – Millie led the way with a soul fed on fun and mischief. Surely, my recounting may sound fanciful to some, but Millie was a living testament to magic and whimsy.

One particular evening, we darted past The Bark Shak, where the aroma of sizzling steak swirled invitingly around us. Millie’s tail was wagging erratically as if signaling the urgency of impending disaster. We veered towards Tail Waggers, our strides punctuated by a chorus of hungry stomachs.

Suddenly, Southern Golden Retriever River roared abnormally turbulent. It seemed the mighty river was not in its usual good spirits. Millie stiffened and a low growl rumbled deep within her. I looked at her blue and brown eyes and saw them filled with determination. A sense of dread gripped Pawsburgh.

Panic set in as houses shook, dogs barked, and shouts rose. Millie, however, stood bravely by the roaring river, her gaze set on a tiny figure swirling amidst the furious waters. It was a little Shih Tzu stranded on a raft.

Millie’s instincts kicked in and with a bold leap, she plunged into the deadly currents. I followed suit, for there seemed to me no choice left, as frantic onlookers barked out ardent words of prayer.

We fought the monstrous waves together, the river’s wild herculean strength against Millie’s fierce, defiant spirit. The battle raged, but disaster was a large and fearsome opponent. Exhaustion began to win, but just as hope was slipping away, a familiar squeaking echoed towards us.

Floating on the angry waves, held together by gnashing teeth, Millie’s beloved Sid Sloth stuffy came to the rescue. Buoyed by the sight of her favored toy, Millie marshaled her ebbing strength and swam towards the little Shih Tzu.

One by one, we pulled the poor mutt and the rescue-gray-stuffy from the clutches of disaster. The cheers were jubilant as the town broke into a chorus of celebratory howls.

Later that night, after Poochie Potatoes, some tail wags, and commendations galore, I looked at Millie. She was spent but content, curled against her Sid Sloth stuffy, her unique eyes dreaming, perhaps, of another grand adventure or maybe a bucket full of chicken somewhere.

They say life is measured in moments. Judging by that night, Millie had a spirit of ten thousand. That’s one hell of a Pawsburgh tale – grounded, grand, and etched in gratitude. After all, in Pawsburgh or elsewhere, disaster may loom, but a hero always rises, especially if she smells faintly of sizzling steak and has a stuffed animal named Sid.