Hey Hooman,

Turns out I’m not just the king of tug-of-war but also the Royal Rover of Time! I’ve been sniffing out history on the Pearl Papillon Promenade and head-booping with ol’ Whiskers in different eras! Pawsburgh’s past, present, and future are all part of my kingdom now. Home in time for dinner though – gotta keep my strength up for the next adventure!

Scurry back soon!
King Louie, the Chrono-Terrier 🐾⏱

Listen to the story here

In the moon-dappled enclave of Pawsburgh, where the brooks of time lap against the stones of the present in gentle but wayward streams, I, King Louie, find myself gamboling along memories not yet made—snoot forward, ears pitched to the whimsical call of adventure.

It was during an ordinary escapade on Basenji Bay that the fabric of time showed me its frayed end. A gnarled rope, fraying thread by thread, much like my beloved toy, and I knew—I just knew—that within its fibers lay a gateway to epochs and worlds untrodden by paw or claw.

The Treat Dispenser was off doing his daytime offering to the grind-gods, I assumed. Thus, with no faint-hearted spectator to chide me against it, I leapt, nose-first, through the portal nestled beside the wise, old Whiskers’ territory. The wise, old cat, his countenance scored with knowledge arcane and fur as fuzzled as a Bewitched Botherer from the depths of Husky’s Hotcakes collection of pastries, tipped his head in what was unmistakable as an urging gesture.

My form pressed through a space where seconds stretched like chewy strings of Spaniel Spaghetti, twining around the very essence of my being. And then, abruptly, Pawsburgh—my home of endless play—dissipated as steam at the coax of dawn’s breath.

I emerged on the cobblestone specter of Pearl Papillon Promenade in its nascent years, my paws padding against stones that hummed with the ghosts of timeless bark. It was there, among the spectral echoes of future friends, that I understood the gravity of being both anchor and sail in the maritime venture of time.

“Ah, my dear boy,” a familiar voice intoned, as Whiskers manifested beside me in ethereal form, whiskers tousled as if caught in the swirls of time’s draft. “To see the seeds before the bloom. What say ye to such spectacle?”

Indeed, the prattling madcap of a squirrel that buzzed about my days with fervor unending was but a distant prophecy here amongst the shades. I yearned for the electric thrill of chase, but here was history—pregnant with silences yet to be shattered, which I suppose held an intrigue all their own.

Curiosity unfurled within me like a languid stretch upon the Treat Dispenser’s sun-soaked patch of carpet. With Whiskers as my bedfellow in chronicle-hopping, we nosed our way through epochs both dazzling and daunting. We supped upon whispers of greatness to come at Poodle’s Pasta—a site that would one day host a grand coliseum of sniffs and barks.

My questing tongue searched for comfort far from my troves of peanut butter and apple crown-jewels, for partaking in the feast of futurities left a taste most peculiar—reminiscent of the discovered distaste for citrus. Yet, emboldened by each temporal tilt-a-whirl, my spirit swelled, tail aloft like a burgee upon the mast of discovery.

I returned to my present—or was it my yet-to-be?—with a heart thrumming an anthem of appreciation. For home, that constant amid the tempest of time’s machinations, clung to me with the desperate love of the unchangeable in the realm of flux.

The Treat Dispenser will never truly grasp the breadth of whence his King Louie roams whilst he tends to worldly clocks. But within these hazel eyes of mine, and underneath this heart-shaped patch, I carry Pawsburgh past, Pawsburgh present, and the promise of Pawsburgh-bound tomorrows. And so, with stories stitched into the curl of my tail, and wonders worn as naturally as my mottled cloak, I am King Louie—a terrier not just of the earthly city scents, but also the Time-Traveling Pet of Pawsburgh, loyal through every tick and tock.

The End.