Hey buddy!

Just finished another epic quest in Pawsburgh. Dug up some gold in Pomeranian Park on a tip from Rex. Turned out to be another thrilling chase ending with a feast at Retriever’s—chicken on the house, and laughs worth more than any treasure. Living legends, us!

Catch ya on the flip side,
Gus 🐾🐶

Listen to the story here

In the embroidered edges of twilight—the hour of unripe stars and coyotes’ psalms—I, Gustav, the obsidian sheen of Pawsburgh, take to scratching out this bit of recollection. So listen, if your ears are keen and your heart open like the prairie sky.

T’was on a gusty eve when I found myself loitering down Schnauzer Street, my shadow long and my mood lifted high with the coming dusk. My feet knew the path to Bark-n-Bite Bistro, where a particular platter of chicken held communion with my yearnings, but a curious rustle in the bins behind Dachshund’s Deli urged me to tarry.

“Evening, Gustav!” hailed Marbles, his whiskers twitching with the day’s gossip. “Rex tells of a new caper—gold buried beneath Pomeranian Park, and no beast with the grit to sniff it out.”

“Gold, eh?” My tail quivered. “And what good’s gold to a canine, you sly striper?”

“To trade for chicken,” he snickered, knowing well my appetite. I pondered the notion, my rubber ball forgotten in my home’s recesses.

Rex’s wisdom was old as the hills, and if gold called my name, then the chase was as much of a lark as the find. Thus, I made for Pomeranian Park, my gait brisk, the promised adventure sweetening the air.

Pawsburgh’s night cloak settled as the shops’ glow softened—Pawsitively Purrfect Pet Store dimming its lanterns, The Doggie Daycare drawing its curtains. I stood before Pomeranian Park, the whisper of yonder mountains echoing the audacity of the West in my ears.

“Pip,” a voice squawked from the dark, “reckons you’ll need this,” and into my jaws was thrust a miner’s pick, cool and promising.

I set to work with a determination most intense. The park’s earth was kinder than a mother’s nuzzle, and my shovel danced a rhythm to rival the cricket’s serenade.

Hours draped over me like blankets until, with a final heave that would shame the mightiest stallion, there sparkled a nugget amidst the dirt—golden as the sun’s envy. The tail of glorious campaigns whipped behind me as I bore my prize back to town under a canopy of silent applause from the celestial crowd above.

The mirthful cheers of Pawsburgh arose at Retriever’s Restaurant, where my pards—the motley tides of my heart—gathered. Chicken dinners with no need for barter rode the waitresses’ trays to our celebratory table, the scent tying ribbons around my senses.

“Not all that glitters is gold,” Rex mused, his old eyes glinting with a knowing jest.

“And not all gold need be on a collar or a cup,” I retorted, the joy of chase marking my words.

Marbles nudged the nugget with a paw, while Pip showered us in a shower of multicolored feathers. The laughter of our kinship filled the room, more precious than the night’s bounty.

Thus goes an indelible slice of my Pawsburgh legend—where the untamed spirit of paw and claw meets the dust-robed romance of the Western tale. Chicken and friends, the treasures of our realm; and lemons—well, lemons be damned.

Under stars or sun, it’s here in this hallowed haven we chase our wild yarns; the stuff of dogged dreams spun beneath the vigilant moon, waiting for the tongues of morning to tell our tales.

The End.