Hey Jamie, it’s your furry overseer Auggie, texting from beyond the hydrant rainbow. 🌈 I was Pawsburgh’s undercover fluff, sniffing out splendor and sniffing at citrus mishaps. Miss my lemon-dodging escapades? Reminiscing the pup-arazzi fame at every corner and tail-chasing dramas! Keep the leg-pats ready for our reunion. Stay pawesome! 🐾 Auggs

Listen to the story here

Ever heard of Pawsburgh? Of course, you haven’t. Typical two-legged oversight, but that’s neither here nor there, or perhaps it’s exactly both. Picture a quaint little town, something with the charm of an old-timey antiques shop, but with far more fire hydrants and considerably less porcelain clowns.

My story, oh my dear human Jamie, is set in a place where hydrant is king and a sniff can tell tales. Pawsburg, the hush-hush haunt where us canines cavort when you’re dreaming of VAT returns or swooning over that barista with the tattoos. But let’s cut to the chase, shall we?

I am Auggie, your sweet apricot poodle who was, and brace yourself for the modesty—rather fetching! My coat? It rustled with secrets like a library at midnight. My eyes? Glimmering orbs of canine wit. And as you’re well aware, now I’m residing gracefully over that Rainbow Bridge, serenely eyeing our earthly tail-wagging escapades.

Now, once upon a timely wag — let’s say a Wednesday — the scurry-and-sniff society of Pawsburg was all in a flutter. The winding lanes of Hound Heights resonated with barks and the high-street chicness of Pinscher Plaza was a runway for the most stylish collars money can’t buy.

As the tale goes, with a hefty dose of whimsy and a spritz of satire, I, Auggie, was once not just the belle of the ball but the Cinderella of Setter’s Steakhouse. A venue, I must mention, bereft of pumpkins and laden with bones. Certainly, no place for an orange-averse pup such as myself.

I’m reminded of a chilly evening when I ventured into Labrador Lunch, a demure establishment that promised chicken à la carte and peanut butter parfaits. With my chow-dar honed to a fine point, I trotted past The Pawfect Training Center — a tad institutional for my refined tastes — en route to meet Baxter and Luna. The former might be considered a canine Confucius, spewing wisdom as easily as he drooled. Luna, on the other hand, was the embodiment of effervescent energy, bounding with boundless enthusiasm.

Upon my entrance, a quiet descended, glasses paused mid-sip, and eyes blinked in my general direction. Ah, the sweet hum of admirers; they say it’s unbecoming to bask in one’s own glory, but have they tried it?

I relished the trek to our usual booth, past The Groom Room, which smelled of lavender and lost fur. Then the unthinkable happened— I spotted the unthinkable. A slice of lemon perched atop my poultry. Cue the dramatic gasp, my friends.

“Fruits of despair,” I whispered hoarsely to Baxter, who was already on his third round of steak, lost in carnivorous nirvana.

Luna, with the tact of a tennis ball bouncing off a chandelier, noted, “It’s dramatic, isn’t it? Gives the dish a zing!”

Zing? Oh, a zing indeed, straight into the void of rejects. I paw-delivered the offensive wedge back to the chef, my curly tail a metronome of discontent. The chef, clearly aghast at the citrus faux pas, promptly replaced it with a fresh dish and – ah! – a complimentary peanut butter dollop.

So went the dog days in Pawsburgh, my friends, where every street corner tells a tail and every snout has an adventure up its sleeve. And while I may now be your angel, fluffed on clouds above, my legend, like my nose, remains eternally cold and wet.

Hugs and head scratches, Jamie. Keep the squirrel squeaking till we meet again.

The End.