“Hey pals, it’s your adventuring buddy Finick. From deserted island escapades to barking up apple trees and missing chicken, we Pawburgers have woven quite the tale of survival and camaraderie. Made it back to our territory, more stories to fetch, no doubt! Catch you at The Deli. Until then, ‘Fetch, indeed!’ – Fickle Finick.”

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The morning after Finick’s annual great escape to Pawsburg, the first faint glow of dawn crept into my lid-lidded eyes, rousing me from slumber.

“You wouldn’t believe it,” Finick would recount later to Pepper and Dash, his words buzzing with excitement and worry. “We found ourselves on a deserted island, with nothing but our wits, and the grace of being well-fed town dogs.”

I rose to find myself in a paradise. It was an undisturbed version of Brindle Brown Boxer Beach, but miles away from the well-trodden paths of Pawsburg. Along Finick, Pepper, and Dash, plus a few others who’d simply come for the adventure, were marooned on this island.

“We were all bewildered, in awe,” Finick recalled, curling himself tighter around his favourite worn-out rubber bone. “We spent much of the first day exploring, we found no humans, just endless rows of fruit trees- apples,” a shudder ran through him at the memory, and Dash chuckled.

“But, no chickens?” Pepper asked, his eyes twinkling in amusement. Finick only huffed in response.

“Nightfall came swiftly,” he continued. “The howling winds, sporadic showers of stinging rain.” I recalled burrowing myself deep into the sand, for warmth, for comfort, praying for the storm to end. It was different from the safe and dry confines of my home, where weather was only an outside spectacle.

“We quickly learnt to work together as a pack,” Dash bragged later, at The Fetching Deli where he offered a dramatic recount of our time on the island.

Pepper, our brain, guided us with his years of wisdom. Dash, our muscle, ran errands and made shelters. And I, Finick, found my need for familiarity to be our Seoul. We set routines, sticking to what we knew best from Pawsburg days.

A week later, as we rooted for survival on the island, we spotted a plume of smoke emerging from where Pawsburg stood, our hearts filled with hopes of rescue.

By the time we’d been returned to Pawsburg, thanks to our loving and rather frantic owners, we’d become legends. Our story of survival and camaraderie spread through the streets, immortalized in books at The Wagging Tail Bookstore and discussed as gossip at The Canine Cafe.

Strangely, I found myself missing the island. The taste of freedom, the thrill of survival, and the bond it had created among us, and perhaps, a part of me wished for another chance. Until then at least, we had Pawsburg, to indulge in our adventures, undaunted by the rain or the absence of chicken. No apples, though. I hoped.

Back home, back to my familiar backyard, the adventure may have ended, but Pawsburg held more tales for us to unravel. Resting on my blanket, gnawing at my favourite bone contemplating the tempestuous week, one phrase kept recurring in my mind:

“Fetch, indeed!”

The End.

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