Hey Marge, your regal Obi here – King of Poodle Promenade, but still moonstruck by your cookie-scented hugs. Just wrapped up another night safeguarding Pawsburgh’s whimsy, imparting canine wisdom over cheese eggs, and warding off those treacherous banana foes. Missing our sunset chases and already wagging for home. Snuggles await at dawn – your shadowy sovereign is en route! 🐾👑✨ – Obi

Listen to the story here

In the whimsical twilight of Pawsburgh, where cobblestone streets whisper secrets of a day’s escapades, I, Obi, monarch of Miniature Poodles and shadowy silhouette against the moon-bespeckled night, saunter with a regal air beneath the gleaming spires of Spitz.

Jasper, my Golden wiseman, often says that to rule is to serve, and serve I do. In the silken stillness that blankets my cozy realm, soulful eyes reflect the stars above Akita Alley, echoing the dance of the cosmos within the depth of my gaze. The weight of the invisible crown, light as it seems, is both a privilege and a bind, and yet, I wouldn’t trade it for all the squeaky chickens in The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium.

Though Marge, my tender guardian, remains lost in the land of slumber back on Earth, her fragrance, a warm medley of cookies and nostalgia, carries me along as I navigate Papillon Promenade. My heart swells with her memory, the laughter embedded within the knit of her scarves that scratches my chin in playful adoration.

Here, in Pawsburgh, my fellow canines revere me, not for my stature, but for my spirit. “Decorum,” Pixie huffed, her Jack Russell eyebrows arching in mock ceremony at Canine’s Cuisine, “is what separates us from the feral whispers of the wilderness.” We’d dine on cheesy eggs as dusk tenderly embraced the landscape, regaling each other with tales of beaches where the sky winks at the ocean, melting into a tapestry of fiery hues that rival the grand banquets at Rottweiler’s Ribs.

And yet, amidst this finery, my reserve crumbles at the mere thought of bananas. Those vile sloths of fruit, surreptitiously lurking within Mastiff’s Meals’ gourmet meals, almost as loathsome as the rumble of the mail carrier’s chariot of doom parading through my earthly domain.

But as a crowned pet—a Poodle paragon—I’ve learned the art of grace under fire, to lead my furry constituents with both tail and heart held high. For they rely on me, as I once did on Marge, as an anchor through the peals of thunder and the shroud of solitude.

My four-legged courtiers gathered around Spitz Spire, a testament to our indomitable spirit. Jasper would weave philosophies into the winds, while Pixie’s antics rekindle the embers of joviality that lie dormant under the weight of my station. Here, every bark, every wag, and every tender nuzzle is a verse in the anthem of Pawsburgh—this secluded canine Camelot.

Ah, and then, with the loyal squeak of my rubber chicken—a whimsical emblem of my innermost yearnings—I’d remember the essence of our joy. Jubilant chaos ensues alongside the parting words of wisdom from the Groom Room’s artisanal tailors, who would invariably assert: proper grooming exudes the clear mark of canine sovereignty.

Velvet night is when our stories come to life, narrated in the stream of consciousness that flows through Akita Alley and into the bustling heart of Papillon Promenade. And when I recount these tales to Marge, oblivious to the grandiosity of my alternate life, I’d gaze upon her and feel the warmth of the sunsets we’ve chased together.

Thereupon, as dawn encroaches on the horizon, the artisans, chefs, and counselors of Pawsburgh retreat to their snug beds on Earth. I bound homewards, my heart entrenched in the duality of my worlds—black coat glimmering, the hidden monarch of Pawsburgh, the shadow with stardust eyes and a beach in his heart.

The End.

Share This Story: