“Stardust adventures with Hank under a Shepherd Skyline. Almost swooned by Meghan’s summer-kissed coat. Met the Pawsburg Phantom? Or was it wolfish Bart on steroids? Too much midnight mischief at Bone Appetit. Note to self: stick to chicken chapati. – Canine King Rooney 🐾”

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The moon hung high in a star-riddled sky, wearing a faint fuzz of silver like one of those fancy sodas you get at The Bark Shak. Pawsburg emerged, a haven in the hush, unfurled in shades of delicious twilights. Ah, Pawsburg, our secret sanctuary, our clandestine Shangri-La, and me, Rooney, the self-anointed canine king of this unsuspecting town.

Tonight, under the stardust streaked Shepherd Skyline, Hank and I were plotting our latest escapade. Hank, my day-one pup, golden tufts of fur ruffled, always ready for the next adventure. Didn’t matter if I was made of retriever and collie; at the heart of hearts, we were the same variety.

“We’re doing this for Meghan, you get that, right?” I nudged him, referring to my playmate, with the bouncy curls and summer-kissed coat as vivacious as her spirit. Sorry lady pit-bulls, although you make my tail waggle, Meghan takes the biscuit.

Hank, being Hank, gave me a sceptical look. “If you say so, Rooney. But Bone Appetit at this time of the night? Aren’t you scared of the Pawsburg Phantom?”

I rolled my eyes, or at least as much as a dog can roll his eyes. “Scared? Me? That thing is about as real as the vacuum that freezes me in my tracks. Besides, I’ve got Bart. Ghost or not, Bart’s got my back, that winsome wolfhound.”

Just as I said that, something rumbled in White Westie Woods. I squinted, my every nerve pulling taut. A stick lay beside me, my trusty talisman in these treks. For some ungodly reason, the sight of it reassured me.

“Bart, is that you?” I approached the woods, conflicting odours of turmeric and butter wafting from Bone Appetit.

The trees quivered, a spectral glow seeped out, spectral, like a shroud torn by moonlight…and then, out of it emerged… Wait. No. It can’t be. Bart? But he was gargantuan, an ethereal embodiment with silver-blue fire aglow in his eyes.

“Rooney,” his thunderous voice echoed through the woods. “You’ve summoned me.”

I backed up a little, recalling the tale of the Pawsburg Phantom. A myth or was it? And poor Bart, consigned to the tale. Maybe Hank wasn’t wrong about Bone Appetit at midnight, after all.

With a rapid swing of my tail and a shimmy of my multicolored toy, the sceptre of my sovereignty, I stood my ground. It was time for the King of Pawsburg to act.

Adventure was served, and it wouldn’t be a chicken chapati.

The End.

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