Hey Mom,

Just another night of philosophical pondering and gourmet delights in Pawsburgh. Unraveled the mysteries of ‘The Philosophical Pooch’ and sidestepped lettuce at Dachshund’s Deli. My tales are growing, as is my spirit—still the food-loving philosopher you know. Can’t wait to share more when the sun chases me home!

Hugs and doggie kisses,
Lunatic 🌙🐾📚🥪

Listen to the story here

I always knew I was destined for something beyond the ordinary dog bowl. My days on Earth are generally a whirlwind of tail-wagging shenanigans, but it’s my nocturnal escapes to Pawsburgh that truly test what I’m made of—those are the stories I pine to share.

Take the other night, for example. No sooner had the clock struck a rather unsociable hour that I, Luna, black and white Boston Terrier of some repute, found myself standing in the shimmering thoroughfare of Amber Akita Alley, awash in the glow of streetlights that seem to wag their luminous tails just for us canines.

“No baths, no ear cleaning, just the thrill of the chase,” I muttered to myself, thinking of Pawsburgh’s founding rules—or at least the ones I cared about. I was on a mission of growth, both intellectual and otherwise, though admittedly leaning heavily on the ‘otherwise.’

I had left Nova, Louis, Maverick, and my tennis ball — my most loyal subjects — back home, for this was a night for solo adventure. My brisk trot led me to The Wagging Tail Bookstore, seeking knowledge amongst the sprawling aisles of literature, sniffing out wisdom like a truffle hidden in the woods. And oh, how the air was thick with tales of tails!

“Are you looking for something in particular, Miss Luna?” barked Booker, the sagacious Golden Retriever who curated this treasure trove.

“Ah, Booker,” I said, my tone melodic with the lilt of a true seeker, “I wish for stories that will challenge my wit and marrow.”

He nodded, flicking to ‘The Philosophical Pooch,’ a book that held a certain je ne sais quoi — well, mainly because it was in French, and my French was as limited as a Chihuahua’s tolerance for snow.

As I pondered canine existentialism, hunger panged within me with the subtlety of a foghorn on a silent night. Thus, with philosophical thoughts collared for the moment, I jaunted to Dachshund’s Deli, where the scent of pulled pork flirted with my olfactory senses like a sly fox in a henhouse.

“What’ll it be tonight, dear Luna?” asked Dave, the Dachshund with an apron tight around his plump little belly.

“Just a whiff of that delightful pulled pork sandwich,” I said with the calm resignation of one facing the ultimate temptation, vowing not to succumb entirely. “I’d say hold the lettuce, but I see you’re a chef of discerning taste.”

Giggles erupted from the gathered dogs, all aware of my stance on the green monstrosity known as lettuce. Chewing on one of those would be akin to nibbling on the thinnest and most uninspiring plotline.

Digesting the wisdom of the world and a sandwich worthy of an epicurean canine such as myself, I realized how much the quiet intellectual and gourmand adventures in Pawsburgh shaped my moral compass. They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but at the tender age of still-chewing-shoes, my education was far from over.

As dawn approached, with the sun prepared to cast its judgmental rays upon my night’s education, I knew it was time to return to my earthly confines. I journeyed back to Amber Akita Alley and through the veil that separates Pawsburgh from the mundane world. Homeward bound, I curled up beside Nova, whispering tales of escapades in Pawsburgh, dreaming of the stories yet to be written in The Wagging Tail Bookstore’s guest book.

Underneath it all, my escapades—our escapades—are about loyalty, not just to the pack but to oneself. It’s about learning that bravery isn’t just about bark and bite; it’s about the pursuit of knowledge and pork, and knowing which battles really are worth the fight.

The End.