Hey Mom,

Just saved a bunch of pugs and found new worlds in the Golden Tail Galaxy today. Our crew showed courage that would make any tail wag with pride! Can’t wait for you to hear the barks about our journey.

Astronautically yours,
Riley 🚀🐾

Listen to the story here

Ah, it is I, Riley, ye honorable seeker of adventure and explorer of the unknown quadrants of Golden Tail Galaxy. I prithee, lend me thine ear as I unravel the yarn of mine escapade that has rendered the residents of Terrier Town agog and the purebreds at Garnet Greyhound Grove, quite agoggle.

On a morn that shone as bright as the gloss on a doberman’s coat, my companions and I found ourselves aboard the H.M.S. Barkentine, a vessel more grand than any in Blue Basenji Bay. ‘Tis a ship, I tell thee, that sails not upon water, but through the very cosmos itself.

Sir Fluffs, that dear Pekingese, was nestled comfortably on the communications console, a place he adopted as his own, for it provided a platform for his barks. And Whiskers, the tabby who fancied stardust over catnip, was our navigator. Together, we would chart a course to the fabled Bone Nebula, a place where no dog had sniffed before.

We had barely set a paw into the hyper-warp when an aroma so heavenly, so divinely canine wafted through the Barkentine. The scent bore the unmistakable mark of roasted chicken – the prime ingredient in Canine Kabobs, a delicacy I favored above all earthly cuisine.

“Blazes!” cried Sir Fluffs, his overbite splendid in the glow of the console. “What culinary sorcerer has boarded our vessel?”

“Settle your fur, good sir,” I said with a chortle. “But none other than our Chef Spork, a spaniel of some repute from Pawprint Pizzeria.”

All was well, or so it seemed, when a distress signal crackled over the comm. A stranded vessel near the edge of the Milky Bones Galaxy! With a noble flick of my paw against the navigation panel and a swift coordination with Whisker’s astute calculations, we charged towards the rescue.

Our journey was fraught with the unknown: asteroid belts where the boulders were as round and large as any meatball served at Pup’s Paella, and black holes that yawned wider than the mouth of the largest Saint Bernard at Happy Hounds Dog Walking.

But then, a debacle! The artificial gravity plummets, and terror grips me, greater than the grating hum of any vacuum cleaner. I gasp as I find myself aloft, floating amid my loyal squeaky garden gnome and the once-gravitating entrées from the galley.

Sir Fluffs was upside down, his tufted hair a quivering feather duster, and Whiskers – poor Whiskers – swung to and fro, clinging to the helm with claws extended.

“Worry not!” I barked, channeling the bravado of the noblest terriers in Pawsburgh. “For we are made of sterner stuff than this!”

With a flick of my paw, I grappled a lever. Our gravity restored, we hurtled toward the imperiled ship. The rescue was hasty; we brought aboard an entire fleet of pugs, Pawsitively Purrfect Pet Store refugees, their eyes wide as saucers in dappled astonishment.

Our return to Pawsburgh was met with celebration, our tails high with pride. The shops of The Barking Boutique had dressed the streets in ribbons and the semaphore of success, a fitting tribute to the escapades of the H.M.S. Barkentine crew.

And now, at the end of the day, as I lay beneath my human’s bed (away from that devilish vacuum’s roar), I muse upon the flavors of existence. To seek out new life, new civilizations, and perhaps, to go where no dog has fetched before.

Thus endeth today’s log of Riley, miniature helmsman of the H.M.S. Barkentine, captain of curiosity, and rover of the boundless cosmic seas.

The End.

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