Hey Mom,

Just your average day here – solved a mystery, dug up ancient yogurt bonz, and sussed out a ghostly comedian dog. Pawsburg’s safe for another night! Also, pretty sure I’ve got the soul of an adventurer beneath this fur. Couch potato? More like Sherlock Bones! 🐾

Hugs and head pats,
Ricky B 🏁

Listen to the story here

I woke up that morning with the same tingling in my paws that always meant today wasn’t just Tuesday: it was an adventure day. Now, my human thinks I spend my days sleeping on the couch, but truth be told, I’ve got a city to run. Pawsburg isn’t gonna manage itself, you know.

I took a quick glance at my sleeping human and with a practiced leap, I was out the doggy door. The sunlight hit my coat, making it shine like a beacon at Harrier Harbor, and rightly so. I was off to be a hero. Again.

Pawsburg’s latest mystery had the fur at the back of my neck standing up even before I had my morning stretch. Dogs from Pomeranian Park to Saluki Sands were talking about ‘The Phantom Chuckle’, a laugh that echoed through the city after sundown. A sound that filled even the bravest Great Dane with a whimper.

I arrived at Pomeranian Park, a place usually so lively it would’ve made a squirrel dizzy. But the haunting had turned tail wags to shivers. There were rumors, hushed barks about an old legend, a dog who laughed in the face of the Kibble King and was cursed to chuckle forever. Classic campfire kibble – but the fear was real enough.

“So,” Luna the husky greeted me with her usual moonlit smile. “Ricky Bobby, are you gonna let some ghost story keep you from the greatest treasure hunt of our lives?”

Treasure hunt? I had just caught wind of it through the fire hydrant grapevine. They said a tasty trove of delectable yogurt bonz had been buried eons ago by a mystical Mastiff, somewhere in the rolling dunes of Saluki Sands.

“Well,” I said in a Vonnegut drawl, because why be straightforward when you can be intriguing, “all we dogs are just trying to avoid a life of chasing cars and being subservient to the vacuums. A treasure hunt could be the distraction we need from our existential dread.”

“Exactly!” Luna tossed her head back and let out a howl. A cheer that thawed the frost of fear and had the park in a flurry of barks and ballyhoo.

Our hero brigade was quickly assembled, hissing Kitty and Alexa the wise-old cat in tow, for even cats knew the allure of yogurt bonz. After a hasty fuel-up of grilled Sniffer’s Sandwiches with extra cheese, we set off.

I led the charge, Blankie draped around my neck like a cape. Alexa cast suspicious glances and murmured enchantments that probably translated to, “If this isn’t nonsense, I’ll eat my catnip.”

We weren’t alone on the dunes; shadows stretched longer than the queue at Pawprint Pizzeria on a Friday night. And there it was again, that chuckle, frostier than a blizzard on a warm bed.

It was then, in the beam of Luna’s ivory glow, we found it – the treasure chest, as real as the wag in my tail. As we dug and dug, the laughter grew closer, a gale of gags swirling around us.

“Open it,” Kitty hissed, wide-eyed.

With one pull of a paw and a flick of tail, the lid flew open. Gasp! A choir of yogurt bonz sang an angelic tune, and the laughter? It melted away like the flimsy specter it was, leaving behind a single giggle that tickled our ears.

It turned out, the ‘Phantom Chuckle’ was started by a ventriloquist Vizsla practicing his comedy act. A spooky echo can really whip something banal into a legend, and that’s the truth.

I headed home, belly full of treasure, pride as fluffy as my blanket. The sun was crawling under the horizon as I squeezed back through the doggy door, dirt still fresh on my paws.

My human would never guess that the soft snoring lump of fur on the couch had just been the day’s savior. I’d fought fears, found treasure, all before dinner.

That’s Pawsburg for you, where every dog has its day—even if it’s just in secret.

The End.