Hey pal,

Just finished another day in the fur-filled saga of Pawsburgh, where being a Gordon Setter comes with a dash of mediumship. Whispering Willow’s ghostly gab, Lady Fluffington’s misty message, and twilight trysts at Pinscher Plaza—turns out, I’m a regular arbiter of canine carousels and phantom flirtations. Running with both the living and the whispered wags of the beyond, I’ve found love’s a frisbee that flies through realms. Call me Max the Medium, connecting hearts with or without a heartbeat!

Cheers,
Max the Medium

Listen to the story here

“It’s the little things, they say. But in Pawsburgh, it’s the little things and the specters,” I mused, my mind wandering as I bounded over to Whispering Willow Park. The grass rustled with the murmurs of ghostly, long-gone canines sharing stories of their legendary bones they buried in lifetimes past. Oh, if Bella heard this. She’d howl melodious notes to the moon, maybe compose a ghostly ballad. Her nose keen to the supernatural, and mine to adventure.

Just then, ‘Flying Red’ caught a wicked breeze, veering like a drunken bat towards Spaniel Springs, which is a misnomer really—it’s more of a glorified puddle that reflects the ethereal charm of Pawsburgh. But that’s where I saw her, the spectral presence of Lady Fluffington, the Cavalier Queen, serenely resting atop the water.

“Max, darling,” her voice billowed like the mist, “your affection for Bella is palpable, as is your distaste for cucumbers.”

“Indeed,” I replied, as I swiftly backed away. “But is love enough to cross the divide of our realms?” My tone was lighthearted, but my soul? Well, it bore the weight of a thousand ‘Flying Reds.’

“Fear not, for the spirit of Pawsburgh shall guide you,” she woofed in that royally comforting way, a whisper on the wind as she faded with my frisbee into the ether.

And so, I found myself later at Barking BBQ, partaking in some roasted chicken that was almost sinfully delicious, with Bella by my side. The chicken was good, but the company? Oh, the company was otherworldly.

“Max,” Bella yapped, smirking, “caught you chatting up with Lady Fluffington, huh? Or should I say, ‘Queen Casper’?”

I tried to play it cool, like when you nonchalantly lick your paw after slipping on a freshly waxed kitchen floor.

“Oh, she’s just a friend,” I stammered. But it was love; different, yes, but love that spanned the realms of the living and the… not-so-much.

Pawsburgh after twilight is a different ballgame altogether. It’s where I go from mere Gordon Setter to Max the Medium, arbiter of the amorous and the aparitions.

In no place is this more obvious than Pinscher Plaza, where every dog has its date, living or not. A place where ghostly tales wag you, and love, well, it makes a fool of us all, spectral or not.

So, there I was, Sharing a “pawshake” (I’ll spare you the gory details—suffice it to say, it involves more nose than paw) with none other than the hound of honor, The Baron of Baskervilles himself. His tale of unrequited love echoed through the hallowed haunts of Pawsburgh.

“What advice do you have for a romantic charlatan such as myself?” I inquired delicately.

“Love,” The Baron uttered, “transcends the veil. It’s as complex as the Rottweiler Ridge hiking trail and as simple as the joy you find in ‘Flying Red’.”

Back at The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium, where I had stopped to pick a spectral-safe squeaky toy for Bella, I realized that Pawsburgh, with its paranormal pup courtships, wasn’t just a magical town; it was a place of boundless, eternal connections.

I suppose this is all to say, for my name is Max, and in the whimsical world of Pawsburgh, romance isn’t limited by the murmurs of mortality. It is a dance, a cavort, a caper that weaves through the heartstrings of reality and fantasy, with love as the timeless guide. And through it all, my heart, forever entwined in the spirit of adventure and enamored glances, finds its home where the patter of paw pads meets the echoes of the ever-after.

The End.