Hey fam,

Broke the rules of fur and snout last night and ended up playing chicken with the ghost of chaos itself on Malamute Mountain. Things got real hairy, but I learned to wag my tail at the storm. Pawsburgh’s safe, and I’m officially the bravest pup in the pen. Tuck that tail in next time thunder grumbles; it’s just life barking its grand tales!

Stay pawesome,
Wolfgang 🐾🌕🐕

Listen to the story here

Remember that night when the moon, plump and idle in the sky, cast its silver gaze upon the sleeping world of humans? Ah, but not so in Pawsburgh, for that’s when our tale unfolds.

I am Wolfgang, your confidant in fur, your guide through the whimsical winding ways of this dog-only dominion. I had sensed something amiss that sultry evening when the stars danced nervously in the heavens. I should have heeded their jittery tango.

I had set out, my paws soundless against the cobblestones, the scent of adventure as thick in the air as the enticing aroma of chicken breasts from Retriever’s Restaurant. But hunger—I would soon discover—was the least of my worries.

Mastiff Meadows, where whispers dwelled and stories took flight, lay empty, an unsettling stillness in place of the joyous cacophony of barks. I paced, uneasy, my lustrous coat the only light amongst the looming shadows.

“Odd,” I muttered to the void, “wasn’t there a soirée scheduled here tonight?” My echo was my sole reply. Inching toward Blue Basenji Bay, I thought of friends and the playful splashes we shared, but found only the bay serenely deserted, the waters whispering secrets I couldn’t decipher.

A disquiet took hold, clawing at my chest, my playful heart now thudding with dread. I ventured onward, carried by some internal force, toward Malamute Mountain. Silhouettes that bore no kinship to canines danced upon the craggy facade, and the leaves rustled as if in warning.

The mountain’s peak, veiled in mist, beckoned me, its silhouette as foreboding as the darkness within. An adventurous spirit, was I not? Yet trepidation clung like burrs to my coat. Thunder—my ancient, despised adversary—growled in the distance, a predatory sound that had me yearning for my family’s safe embrace.

But it was not thunder.

From the summit, a figure emerged, spectral, otherworldly, a howling wraith composed of the night’s very fabric. I stood frozen, my squeaky rubber ball companion forgotten. This was no friend. No being of flesh and bone.

It spoke, its voice the autumn wind scraping against a gravestone. “Wolfgang,” it whispered, and even the stars ceased their glittering dance to listen. “Thou who revel in moonlight, face me.”

I could not move. I could not flee. I could only confront.

“What do you want?” I barked, puffing up my chest, commanding my words to hold firm despite the quaver of fear.

It drifted closer, shape blurring, re-forming, a puzzle of darkness constantly solving itself. “I am the echo of forsaken bones, the shudder of the earth as it clenches in slumber.”

A ghostly tail unfurled behind it, twining with the fog. A riddle wrapped in an enigma, it asked me, “Why dost thou fear the thunder?”

“It… it heralds chaos,” I admitted, my words barely a whisper. “The loss of control.”

The specter swirled, a ballet of night. “Yet out of chaos, is born the pulse of life, the exuberant bark of creation.”

The sky seemed to brighten a shade as understanding dawned, and I met its ethereal gaze with newfound courage. “To live without fear,” I vowed, “even amidst the roiling storm.”

A peaceful silence enveloped us, and the entity receded into the mountain’s embrace. Come sunrise, Pawsburgh had returned to its jubilant self, a town of tail wags and wet noses. My friends never did believe me, even as I regaled them with my nocturnal confrontation.

But to this day, whenever the skies rumble, I raise my head, smile, and remember the night I faced the fear, the night I learned that even the heart of horror holds a message, an anecdote that beats with the rhythm of a thousand playful paws.

The End.