Hey Ma,

Just wrapped up my latest timeline tango, think ‘Doctor Woof’ with a dash of historical haute cuisine – from Roman feasts amidst lion roars to Henry VIII’s turkey! All in a day’s woof for yours truly. Home now, sniffing out my next grand exploit. Give my love to the cat and keep the peanut butter bones coming!

Stay pawsome,
Bronson Buns 🐾😎

Listen to the story here

Bronson here, your waggish wayfarer through time and tangy treats, narrating another escapade from the annals of Pawsburgh.

One balmy dawn, as Enzo delivered his habitual snarl over the fence — an endearing little rite of passage — I found myself contemplating a spot of adventure. Humans often droned about a ‘Doctor Who,’ but in my bones, I fancied myself more of a ‘Doctor Woof.’

While the upright two-leggers busied themselves with pedestrian concerns, I trotted my bulky frame over to the enchanted lamppost by the Pearl Papillon Promenade. Little-known fact, that lamppost: a time-travel device for the distinguished canine connoisseur. With a twitch of my rollicking tail, the air crackled with cosmic mischief, and I was hurtled through the swirling cosmo-canine vortex.

Pray, where was my fuzzy hide flung to this time? A doggone glorious sight! I landed paws-first amidst the clamor of ancient Rome, colliding quite unceremoniously with a legionnaire’s caliga. How’s that for throwing a dog a bone?

The furor of the Colosseum bore down like the aroma of Husky’s Hotcakes on a Sunday morn. Lions and gladiators and oh, the drool-worthy scent of roasted mutton! Hair-raising stuff, but rest assured, dear reader, Bronson’s jowls quake for no beast or blade. ‘Course, the bustling throng spared nary a glance for a bulldog garbed in the tapestry of his own past conquests. Or perhaps it was the spectacle of my remnant Dino bone, firmly clinched in jaw, that swayed them from closer inspection. Tallyho to blending in!

Amid this pageantry of yore, a peculiar pang struck: a craving for the culinary embrace of Snout Snacks — specifically, a peanut butter bone sprinkled with the essence of nostalgia and… aged parmesan?

Ah, but fate’s fickle paw beckoned. In the fury of a gladiatorial flourish, it dawned on me — somber reflection amidst the blood sport — no cucumber slice would pass this gape if fate swung its sword poorly. I nipped at the air, and as though seized by the scruff, was whisked to another temporal twist.

Without precedent, I bounded straight into the court of King Henry VIII, where intrigue and turkey legs dripped from every rich tapestry. Eyes as wide as Pup’s Paella serving platters, I surveyed the banqueting hall.

Witness to unbridled extravagance, an epiphany; for all the kerfuffle humans made about progressing through the ages, it became delectably clear they simply devised grander methods of feasting. I could relate — had they seen the selection at The Groom Room, they’d commend our similar evolution.

As the timeworn clock of Pawsburgh would have it, my furry foray neared its close. My incorrigible teeth, stationed askew, yearned to revisit the Woof and Whisker Wellness Center, where a stargate back to present-sniffs awaited.

With a gallant, albeit graceless, leap worthy of Mel Brooks’ critique were he to voice a shaggy protagonist, I landed squarely on the doormat of Spa for Paws, safe within our magical town’s embrace.

Recounting my escapades to Enzo, I noted his incredulity amidst the snorting. Perhaps some tales are better savored within, seasoned with history and a dash of pride, much like that sublime peanut butter bone. Or narrated to those who believe a dog might command time and indulge whims, to wander where no bulldog has gnawed before.

And so, my day’s tale is twined with fabric of myth and munch, encapsulated in the patchwork that drapes my bulldoggian frame, and inscribed in the heart that beats — audacious and ancient — beneath.

The End.

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