“Morning, just captured Setter Shore’s beauty on my canvas. Buster & Fifi jokesters as always, never thought we’d teleport to Spitz Spire. Met an amiable ghost at Baker’s Ally – yes the Bow-wow Baker! Loved, laughed, learnt a lot. This town keeps surprising! – Ruby Lou 🎨🐾”

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In the wayward solitary hours of the morning, just as the solo parrot began harmonizing with dawn’s light, there I was, Ruby, strolling down the cobblestone streets of Pawsburgh. Gallagher, my trusty walnut journal, nosed at my heart through my harness, and pallets of acrylic under my arm, I ventured to capture the ethereal beauty of Setter Shore.

A canine Corot, if you please.

With naught but a lick of color on my tongue, I transformed the canvas into an unparalleled spectacle. Each brushstroke brought the consciousness of Setter Shore onto my canvas. My jingling rubber ball was my muse, its lively vibrations inspiring my creativity. I was a tale-spinner enlivening lifeless fabric with a panorama uniquely ‘Ruby’.

My stomach, much like my oil-soaked canvas, needed saturation. Belly directing paws, we gravitated toward Pooch’s Pub, tantalizing grills bearing promises of salmon dinner. The bitter memories of brussels sprouts made an invisible barrier at Labrador Lunch.

“Ruby,” hailed the jovial voice of Buster, my rambunctious friend and a wildly unsuccessful art critic. “I see the under-bite’s still in fashion.” chaffed this Beagle, eyes twinkling with innocent mirth. Fifi, Princess and Pomeranian incarnate, elbowed Buster’s paunch, “Manners, Buster!” she yelped haughtily.

As we bantered under the stars, I felt the uncanny sensations of peace and peculiar unease, an unsettling blend; a bit like coffee and lime.

Suddenly, the tranquil nocturnal ambiance shattered, replaced with deafening silence. Ghostly outlines danced in the corner of my eyes, and eerily all of Pawsburgh seemed to fade away. A bone-chilling wind swept, and just like that, we were whisked to Spitz Spire.

“Crikey!” Buster barked. Fifi’s ears artfully resembled upturned saucers.

After the initial shock of teleportation, that particular undercurrent of excitement took over. Startling secrets tucking themselves into every ordinary day making them extraordinary.

There, shimmering translucently, was the Ghost of Pawsbury’s Bakers Ally- the legendary Bow-wow Baker. Legend had it, the ghost is of a previous town resident – a love-struck Labrador who pined for the baker’s collie.

“Let’s help him find his love!”, I suggested. Fifi’s eyes lit up; Buster’s whimpering did the opposite of assuaging our fear, but, you know, that’s Buster.

Summoning courage, we ventured towards the apparition, strange yet benign. And as morning sun basked in rosy hues over Spitz Spire, we came upon the amiable ghost curled up against his beloved.

Against the eerie onslaught of showers and looming specters, the day stretched ahead. The mystifying magic of Pawsburgh, of cities tucked underneath the ever-watchful gaze of canine fellows, filled my heart with grateful tunes. And as the clock hit midday, we made our way home, recounting tales of bow-wows and baking, of ethereal shores and gusting spires.

I suppose I still have a lot to learn about Pawsburgh, about ghosts and gadabouts, about love and laughter. But with friends in tow and a heart full of art, there was plenty of time. Pawsburgh was our stomping ground, and together, we had the strength to spin stories, share secrets, and savor our shared jests, irrespective of encroaching bath times.

But, alas, that’s another story for another day.

The End.

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