Hey, just had to share this! 😄🐾 My night as Pawsburgh’s undercover adventure-dog extraordinaire! Swapped my cozy fireside spot for a ghostly treasure hunt on Rottweiler Ridge with the gang. Turns out, the “specter” was just my squeaky toy, LOL! Home safe, tail wagging overdrive. These paws ain’t just for napping! 🌕✨🦴 – Bobby the Brave

Listen to the story here

Eskimo Estuary shimmered like a frosty mirror under the full-moon ballet. Rather dramatic, if you ask me, but then, Pawsburgh’s no place for the humdrum dog. I, Bobby, the unstoppable scallywag with a tail that could lead a symphony, found myself trotting across the iridescent ice, led by whispers on the wind.

“Right, the thing is,” I started, to no one in particular, for dogs in Pawsburgh spoke often to themselves, “My human—bless her unknowing heart—thinks I’m dozing by the fireplace, when really, I’m off to unearth the treasures of the night.”

Spirits are known to roam in Pawsburgh; some say they’re the whispers of tales yet to be told. Not that I’m bothered much. Ghosts and the like would have to keep up with me, and that’s no easy feat.

With the eternally youthful energy of a Jack Russell and cunning of a Chihuahua, I darted through Saluki Sands as the dunes shifted mysteriously. Overhead, the celestial orbs danced in a sky where the moon held court.

“Hey, Bobby!” The voice was a boom wrapped in velvet. George, with his mopey eyes that could rival any ghost story, loped toward me. “Chasing specters again?”

I chuckled. “You could say that. Heard there’s a ghost haunting Rottweiler Ridge. Fancy a fright?”

“That’d be the day,” he muttered, gusto at odds with his droopy demeanor. “Count me in.”

Our patrol took us past Puppy Plate, where the scent of sizzling bacon could make a grown dog whimper, and Bulldog’s BBQ, where the steaks were renowned for their ability to break ghostly spells. We resisted—barely.

Rottweiler Ridge loomed, and if I’m honest, the sparkle in my eye dimmed ever so slightly. Not from fear, mind. No self-respecting chap in Pawsburgh lets his knee quiver.

We tiptoed up the Ridge, the world hushed as if holding its breath. And then—chaos.

“Will you look at that!” A shimmering bone floated in the air, its eerie luminescence casting shadows that danced like specters at a disco.

Max yipped, dashing to my side with the fine coordination of a pup who’d raided the larder. “Oi! That’s hauntingly brilliant!”

I was about to agree when Lola, a vision of elegance even bewildered, trotted up, fur aglow in moonlight. “Don’t be barking mad. There’s no such thing as—”

And then she too saw it—the levitating bone—and her poised demeanor flickered.

We watched, four courageous canines, members of the furry supernatural society of Pawsburgh, as the bone zipped through the air, performing aerobatics so deft you’d think it trained at Fetch! Toys and Treats.

With the fearless abandon only the smallest of warriors possess, I leaped, twisting midair while George gave a warble that might’ve meant, “Go on, my son!”

My jaws clamped shut around the phantom bone, and it squeaked! Not just any squeak, but the unmistakable, high-pitched protest of my beloved rubber ball. I hit the ground, tail going berserk, and stared at my prize.

“Just your toy, then,” George said, slumping. But he was smiling—a tiny incline of the corners of his jowly mouth. A supernatural occurrence? I preferred to think so.

“Seems like our night ended with more wag than worry,” I said, delighting in their collective chuckles.

And as we told tales of our adventure back at Pup’s Poutine, I realized that in Pawsburgh, even the most ghostly nights could end with friends, fables, and a feast fit for canine kings. What more could a little earthbound dog ask for?

The End.