Hey there, it’s Miss S. Just wanted to give you the tail’s end of today’s caper. Imagine this: falling stars turn out to be ET tourists dropping by Pawsburg! Yours truly navigated fur-raising diplomacy, kept Buster from a full wag meltdown, and showed the tentacled travelers a paw-some time. Ended the day as only a classy canine can – eyeing the chicken, dreaming of peace offerings. The universe paw-sitively has a sense of humor. Until the next adventure, Miss Scarlett 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

I remember it like it was yesterday – not that it wasn’t yesterday or perhaps the day before. Time, as one often finds, tends to weave and wobble like a hound on its first moonshine. Indeed, my life in Pawsburg has been anything but ordinary, and if you’re inclined to lend an ear, I shall whisper the tale of an unusual day – a day when the stars fell, and the dogs of Pawsburg stood a little closer together.

As I sashayed down to Shiba Inlet with my usual grace—a grace that Mrs. Penelope insists could give the Grand Duchess of Westminister Show a run for her collars—I felt an indisposition in the air. A stillness, as if the very wind had taken a break to dab its brow. I arrived at the inlet to meet Buster, who was already hopping about, barking up a storm.

“Scarlett, my dear,” he yelped, never one to curb his enthusiasm even for matters most serious, “the stars are falling, and I don’t mean the Hollywood sort!”

I glanced skyward, and, fluff my fur if he wasn’t onto something. Bright orbs, streaking towards us like comets with a bone to pick. “If this is someone’s idea of fireworks, they’ve skipped pomp for pandemonium,” I drawled, my voice as smooth as a well-groomed pelt.

Invasion, they called it. Aliens, they murmured. But in Pawsburg, where gossip travels faster than a greyhound, what can one believe? Following Buster’s lead – he can be rather convincing, that Jack Russell – we rushed towards Pointer Pier, where the commotion had gathered a crowd plusher than The Woofy Bakery on a Saturday morning.

Dogs of all sizes, breeds, and dignities were scampering around, barking advice and yipping theories. “In times of crisis,” I thought, “at least we’re not catatonic.”

That’s when I saw it, an extraterrestrial spectacle as curious as a cat in a dog park. Creatures, small and green, with more tentacles than a bucket of leashes, disembarked from their fallen star. One approached, and the sea of snarling ceased. We poodles do love being the center of attention, and I took a dainty step forward, amber eyes wide, my plush blue coat shimmering even in the face of intergalactic etiquette faltering.

“You do have a flair for dramatic entries, darlings,” I addressed our guests, with a wit so sharp, you’d need a dog biscuit to recover, “If it’s hospitality you seek, Pawsburg is rather famed for its… accommodating nature.”

The leader, a slimy sort, extended a tentacle in a gesture that could have been amiable – or a dire warning before a calamitous misunderstanding of apocalyptic proportions.

I led them, our new friends or foes, through the historic streets of our Pawsburg, past Dog’s Delicacies – where the aroma of roast chicken can thaw the chilliest of nights, past Pooch’s Pizzeria – their mozzarella is the howl of the town, right through to Sniffer’s Sandwiches – always bustling with eager muzzles.

The aliens seemed to take to The Furry Friends Art Gallery, staring at the portraits as if contemplating a profound existential riddle. In return, they offered trinkets, shiny and incomprehensible, little tokens of what could either be peace or a completely misunderstood declaration of war.

And so, our town navigated the curious tides of a close encounter, with Buster proving a surprising diplomat, and I, Miss Scarlett, maintained a poise that could stabilize the wobbling of worlds. The aliens, with their tentacles delicately curling into what I fancied as smiles, took their leave, promising to visit within some obscure cosmic cycle.

As the dogs of Pawsburg dispersed, I made my way back to my abode, my tail wagging at the thought of dinner. I could smell the roast chicken from here and I thought to myself, what a wonderful world – a world where, no matter how curious, every story finds its way home.

The End.

Share This Story: