Hey, just finished another day as Pawsburgh’s unofficial time-traveling history buff. Swapped bone-chewing for some delightful time-warped escapades with the gang. Found some seriously historic treats and came close to trading a belly rub for a symphony. Life’s never dull with a tail and a timeline. Catch you on the flip side of history.
🐾 Parker

Listen to the story here

Look at me, a degree in History I never asked for, and here I am, trotting through time like it’s a stroll in the park. Well, a park with a curious blend of past and future at every corner. Parker’s the name, and by the twitch in my tail, you’d guess I’ve just stumbled on something spectacular.

So here I am, sniffing about in Pawsburgh – charming spot, looks a bit like my beloved farmhouse when Ellie is in dreamland. My friends? Oh, they’re a hoot and a half. Daisy, always a blur, she’s here somersetting between epochs. Whiskers, ever the statue, contemplating if Schrödinger’s dog would find itself both in and out of history, don’t ask him, he’ll give you a thesis. And the owl, well, he’s timeless in the literal sense.

Now, Pawsburgh’s a quaint little time capsule – full of places like Cocker Courtyard, which I hear was fabulous in the Renaissance era, all the pomp and fanfare minus the fleas. Eskimo Estuary? Please, like the ice age, but with belly rubs and fish treats.

I’d tell you all about Dachshund Dale if I wasn’t getting distracted by the smell wafting from Bark-n-Bite Bistro. It’s an olfactory siren call, really. There, they’ve got these chefs who make a mean steak, could have made a T-Rex sit and stay. Paw Pad Thai? A twist of noodles might have tied up my intestines in the kind of knot that even Alexander wouldn’t dare to cut through. But still, can’t resist.

My spot, though, it’s Whippet Wraps, where the aroma of grilled meats encircles you like a warm hug from a beloved, albeit slightly greasy, granny. Yet as much as the stomach growls, it’s the apples that call my name, singing a siren song sweeter than any soprano could muster at the Met.

Ah, and then there’re the shops. Pawsitively Purrfect Pet Store has a time-traveler’s special – ‘Bones from different eras: chew your way through history!’ Tantalizing, yet I’ve got enough on my plate. The Doggy Depot’s great for a snuffle around though, found a sock from the middle ages once, smelled like Beowulf’s gym locker.

However, if you’re into DIY, which I can’t say I am unless it stands for ‘Dig In Yard,’ then there’s The Howling Husky Hardware Store. Historical renovations, they tell me. Could’ve helped old Paul Bunyan with that ox of his, turned it into a gazebo for kicks.

Here I sit with Daisy, paws crossed, ear at a rakish tilt – contemplating teleporting to 18th-century Vienna. A concert, Beethoven they said, lots of legroom at the Symphony for a Frenchie, or so I’m told. Put these ears to good use instead of just looking like I’m picking up satellite signals.

Ah, but that’s the rub, ain’t it? One whiff of a sour lemon note in their fancy drinks would have me out quicker than scandal at a cotillion. So, I saunter back to the present, mingling with my time-trotting troupe in the soft amber glow of street lamps that have seen revolutions come and go with the flicker of their flames.

Quiet now, sneaking back to the farmhouse, with a clink of medieval chain mail hidden in my hoard of socks under Ellie’s bed. Tales to tell the old girl in the morning. She’ll laugh, dabbing paint here or there on the canvas, finding inspiration in my eyes, as I in her dreams. My life’s a dog-eared page in the annals of history, each sunbeam chased a jape through chronology’s corridors.

So there I will lay, on my patch of sun-splattered farmhouse glory, dreaming of tomorrow’s yesterdays. After all, life’s too short to chew the same bone twice, wouldn’t you agree?

The End.