Hey Mom,

Just to keep you updated from the ruff streets of Pawsburgh: Uncovered some shady dealings down on Schnauzer Street, had to show my fangs a bit. Turns out some dogs aren’t man’s best friend after all. Don’t worry, your lil’ Tiger’s still got the courage of his namesake. And don’t fret, I remembered to eat—swapped the usual pizza for gourmet steak. I’ve sniffed out the plot, but the tale’s not over. Will share more when I sneak back home.

Stay paw-some,
Tiger 🐾

Listen to the story here

I never could resist the siren call of Schnauzer Street; it howled to the wild rhythm of my heart, the staccato beat of my paws tattooing the ground beneath. They think it’s just another adventure in Pawsburgh, but for me, it’s the scent of reality biting at the nape of my neck.

You see, in the bylanes of Pawsburgh where the air is rich with the aroma of Spaniel Spaghetti, there’s a whisper. A murmur that becomes a growl if you listen close enough — and brother, I’ve listened. The plush Promenade beckons with the charm of a siren, but dig deeper and you’ll find layers twisted and tangled like my blue brindle coat.

I remember that night like it was etched in my canine soul. The moon hung low, a blemished silver orb overseeing our clandestine town. Tiger, they called me, a name that conjured up images of sinewy power and fierce loyalty, a bubbling pot of playful energy restrained by the leash of obedience. But little did they know, I had slipped past the gates of everyday dogdom.

The Dapper Dog Salon shone with fluorescent pomp, standing as a beacon for the groomed and pompous. But rest assured, my story is not one of groomed coats. No, it’s the story of chasing shadows — shadows that clung to my fur and reeked of deceit.

I had just emerged from Chowhound’s Chophouse, the taste of gourmet steak still dancing on my tongue. A break from my habitual cheesy pizza indulgence — I am a connoisseur, I bark with no modesty. It was then that I caught a whiff, a peculiar scent that didn’t belong to the ol’ Spaghetti or the pork chops.

It was the foul stench of fear.

I skulked through the misty Harbor, muscles taut beneath my garb of blue. There, on Harrier Harbor, I caught sight of the betrayal. A gathering cloaked in innocence but sharp with the tang of treachery. Dogs of all breeds, my so-called comrades, huddled in the dusk — plotting, planning, weaving a web of lies. They pranced on the precarious precipice between loyalty and deceit, with nary a care for the plunge.

Even the Howling Husky Hardware Store, a testament to the honest labor of Pawsburgh, bore silent witness to the muffled machinations of mutts and mongrels alike.

“What’s this?” I growled, my voice cutting through the quiet like a guillotine’s blade. The huddle broke, and the reality of false friendship was laid bare before me. Whispers became murmurs became gasps — but I, Tiger, stood unfettered.

You may ask why — why step into this heart of canine darkness? The answer, my dear inquisitive minds, is stitched into the very fabric of my existence. That atavistic call to protect, to serve, and hell, to unearth the vermin burrowed within our hallowed soil.

A shake and a shimmy, I aired out my frustrations under the forgiving glow of the street lamps. Every sensation heightened to a fever pitch, leading me to the precipice of a raw and naked truth.

I faced the inherent duplicity of Pawsburgh. Dogs, they’re just like us; scrabbling for a morsel of power, a smidgeon of control. They’ll yap about freedom, loyalty, but turn your back and you’re nothing but a piece of bum steak left to rot.

A psychological thriller, you say? Brother, my life was one.

As dawn broke over Pawsburgh, I made my way back through Pearl Papillon Promenade — a lone figure against the encroaching light. I went back to Earth, beyond the vales of Pawsburgh and the thrills of my vivid escapades.

But fear not, for I am Tiger, and I’ll be back to roam those streets, nose to the ground, ever vigilant. Let the fur fly and the bones crack — within this beating canine heart, the spirit of a warrior thrives. And as for you, dear friends, just remember…

Even in Pawsburgh, amongst the tail wags and belly rubs, there’s always a dark tail waiting to be chased.

The End.