Hey there! Just wrapped up a wild walk through history with the Temporal Dog Bowl—my paws were more time-travelers than pups! Nearly fetched papyrus in ancient Broady-gypt and mingled with Victorian high-tails, all before dinner. Lost the bowl, but gained some tail-waggin’ memories. Call it a regular day in the life of ol’ Broady! 🐾🕰 #TimeTravelingTailWagger

Listen to the story here

Title: Broady’s Temporal Tail-wag

Oh, Pawsburgh, you cradle of canine caper; how you unravel in the weave of time like a leash unwound. And I, Broady, am poring over the curious case of the Temporal Dog Bowl. Speaking of bowls, mine’s been singing the blues ever since that incident at Spaniel Spaghetti— but I’m getting ahead of myself…

I had awoken to the humdrum lullabies of a typical Pawsburgh morn, with the golden sunbeam hitting the spot, like a perfectly tossed fetch stick. Getting up was about as appealing as a vet’s waiting room, but adventure has a knack for sniffing you out especially when you’re a dog who can, by accident of fate or a trick of cosmic humor, trot through time.

It was just past the crack of noon when I sauntered through Vizsla Valley. Luna, agile as thoughts in a philosopher’s mind, taunted me with her swiftness. “Broady, care to race?” she howled with a chuckle. I’m no comet with paws but what I lack in speed, I make up in spirit. I declined with dignity intact, “I’d rather not submit you to such a public humiliation.” The tip of my tail could barely contain my mirth.

My journey was for no ordinary romp at the park. The Pampered Pooch Salon beckoned, not for a trim, heavens forbid – my furrows are as defining as the lines on a playwright’s manuscript. No, it was the whispers of a strange relic that lured me: The Temporal Dog Bowl, rumored to whisk any hound to the epoch of their choosing. To scamper amongst the dinosaurs sounded as rousing as a snoutful of fresh steak, and I’ve dined on quite a few of those.

Old Rex, whose yarns make the hydrants seem new-fangled, cackled as I passed. “Off to find the bowl that makes time roll over, eh?” Accustomed to his astuteness, I afforded him a nod, “Rex, my dear old chap, the steak of yesterday might just be tonight’s tender chew.”

Finally, The Snooty Snout Boutique moonwalked into view. Its mirrors distorted like ripples in a pup’s water bowl, and it was there, amidst the outrageous price tags and perfumes that made your coat sneeze, that I found it—the bowl as ancient as it was plain, sitting causally like it hadn’t a tale to tell.

Turning ’round and ’round, the bowl began to spin like the room after a particularly vigorous tummy rub. Then whoosh! The sensation was akin to having all breeds of butterflies wrestling in my belly.

One moment I was in bronze age Broady-gypt, fetching papyrus for Phar-fetched Sniffses, the next, a Beagle-aire during the howl-i-day season in Victorian Paw-london, paws deep in gifts and grime.

It was dizzying, the epochs passed me by, a leash of history unwoven, until quite unceremoniously, the bowl sputtered to a stop, planting me back in good ol’ Pawsburgh, right into Fido’s Feast.

The aromas caught my senses like puppies at play, but the bowl—oh the infernal thing—vanished like treats under a hound’s watch. Gone without so much as a goodbye yip.

As evening cloaked the sky, I recounted my tale to Luna and Rex over a meal so juicy it could’ve had a storyline. They were skeptical as cats in a yarn shop, but I winked a droopy eye. “Oh, it was nothing really, just your everyday walkies through time.”

And as I settled back onto my cherished sunbeam, with the tang of adventure fresh on my palate, I couldn’t help but wonder if that Temporal Dog Bowl wasn’t just the universe’s way of tossing us dogs a bone—one that squeaks across the sundials of time.

The End.