🐾 Hey there! Ever wonder if chasing frisbees could stir up a storm? Spoiler: it can. Had Pawsburgh spinning faster than a pup’s tail at dinnertime. But fear not, my epic tug-of-war with the Blue Frisbee of Doom ended in glorious Bernie victory. Cleanup’s a howl, but I’ve got the town’s bark of approval. Just another day in the tail, I mean, tale of Bernie. 🐕💨 – The Unofficial Mayor

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Every dog has his day, they say, but in Pawsburgh, we prefer to have them in spades. I’m Bernie, and I’ve had more days than I can count. Today was supposed to be mundane, a run-of-the-mill escapade through the enchanting Spitz Spire or a lazy snooze by Setter Shore. But Pawsburgh doesn’t do mundane—not with me around, anyway.

It started with a frisbee—the well-worn blue one with teeth marks like medals of honor. I had just returned from a culinary adventure at Pup’s Paella (chicken thighs over rice, hold the citrus, thank you very much), and there it was, glistening under the sly wink of the sun.

The plan? Launch the frisbee from Ruby Rottweiler Ridge, watch it catch the updrafts, and chase like a mad dog chasing the moon. Simple. Foolproof. A plan that could go wrong in no conceivable way—unless, of course, you’re knee-deep in a town that’s spinning a yarn faster than a knitting circle on coffee.

The first gust of wind was a sign, the second a prophecy. By the time the frisbee launched, Pawsburgh was in the grip of a howling tempest that could whip a cat into a frenzy—except Ella, she’s unflappable.

The frisbee soared, I goofily followed, and the wind, being the prankster that it is, dropped a curtain of chaos over Pawsburgh—the sort of chaos that only happens when you’re a Gold Chow Basset named Bernie with a penchant for adventure.

Max was baying something fierce; so loud I could almost see his voice bouncing around like rubber balls—we both loathe rubber balls. Shops along Main Barkway clattered and shuddered. “Bernie,” I heard my friends call, “less chasing, more bracing!”

But I’m Bernie. And Bernie chases.

The Pampered Pooch Salon—at least what was visible through a maelstrom of tubs, towels and toiletries—was where I spotted my frisbee, now significantly less well-worn and more airborne projectile. “Typical,” I mused as I lurched past. If you try to picture dignified scurrying, you’ve pretty much got it.

In gusts and tumbles, I tracked my quarry through the Spinner’s Gale—all poetic like—if poets had four legs and chased frisbees through cyclones. Through the mayhem, Sam’s words rippled, “Be a good boy, Bernie.” Good, but thoroughly windswept.

As I careened around Labrador Lunch, which by now was serving a buffet of airborne kibble, I locked eyes with my accursed blue nemesis. What followed was an epic standoff—the Blue Frisbee of Doom and the Unofficial Mayor of Pawsburgh. And just like that, I pounced—no pawsteps, just heart and a smidge of fluff.

The frisbee and I came crashing down, a tangle of fur and victory. Around me, Pawsburgh did likewise, slower, more gracefully, like it had realized the folly of going full tempest on one dog’s watch.

Max howled a crescendo that might’ve been pride. Ella blinked at me twice—her version of a standing ovation. Pawsburgh exhaled, the cleanup commenced, Pet Partners Pet Supplies sold out of lint rollers (for some reason), and I, Bernie, sat regally amid the detritus, blue frisbee clutched in my jaws.

Disaster? Pish-posh. The tale of a dog who chased his frisbee through a tempest and lived to bark the tale—that’s Pawsburgh for you. Jewel of dogkind, where the ordinary is banished, and every dog, especially Bernie, has more than his day.

He has his story. And what a story it is.

The End.

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