Hey, just wanted to give you a quick update: I’ve gone from neighborhood watch to galaxy guard in a tail’s wag! Aliens invaded Pawsburgh, but we fought back with slobber and squeaky-toy symphonies. We kept our tails and kicked some tentacles! Who knew saving the world was on my daily walk schedule? 🐾👽🚀

Stay pawsome,
Theo aka “Teddy Tail-wagger”

Listen to the story here

In Pawsburgh, the days usually unfurl with the predictability of a well-loved rug—comforting, if not a bit frayed at the edges. You see, we dogs have our fun in that magical little place, spinning yarns to chase the tails of our days. I, Theodore, am no exception to this rule of paw, but I never could have imagined that one day we’d be scribing a tale of tails versus… tentacles?

It happened on a Tuesday, if my memory serves—a day that had promised nothing more than a trip to Paw Pad Thai and a game of chase with that ever-elusive ball. But as I stood, bathed in the amber glow of the setting sun, I noticed a peculiar silence had blanketed Terrier Town. Not a yap nor a yip to be heard, which on any other Tuesday would be cause enough for concern.

Peering up, my sharp collie eyes caught the merest glint beyond Spitz Spire. The glint grew, became a gleam, and then a gleaming ship of otherworldly origination. Aliens. Here, in our doggone Pawsburgh.

Now, I’ve never been one to shy away from the excessive distribution of barks at the mailman, but this… this was entirely above my pay grade. However, as their ship lowered toward Rottweiler Ridge, I realised to whom this collar falls.

“Oh, biscuits,” I muttered to myself, trying to sound more like a hero and less like a pup who’d just spied the vet’s needle. I had to warn the others!

Paw-tisserie was first on my path. The sight of pastries flew high and wide as I barreled in, my echoes of alert resonating even louder than the cacophony of falling éclairs.

“Intruders!” I barked. “From beyond the stars themselves!”

My four-legged fellows, mid-munch, stared at me. A poodle with cream on his nose blinked several times, perhaps thinking I’d underdone it in the sun. But when I mentioned the word “colliespondence” had come from extra-furry-estrials, the gravity of the situation sank in even for the little terriers, who often struggled with grasping the big picture.

We collies, resourceful as we are debonair, decided to gather the others. I led the charge to the Canine Café, tail held high like a noble’s banner in the wind. Pups of Pawsburgh needed no translation—they knew, that on this night they weren’t mere pets, but guardians of their cherished site.

Oliver, spirited as ever in the face of such unknown, found his courage like he found his ball—swiftly and with ample gusto. Together, we amassed our crew of canines, tails stiff with resolve.

Mere moments later, before our furry fighters, landed the vessel. Out slinked tendrils, fanning the air with the menace of a hundred vacuums set to ‘vaporize’. But braver were the hearts that beat within Pawsburgh’s breast, facing down these unwelcome guests.

Oliver, faithful chum, darted forward. “For the love of dogkind, we shall not roll over!” he howled resolutely, a battle cry that set us charging.

Our tactics? Well, they were… unconventional. The tennis ball cannons, the bone barricades, the high-pitched harmonies of barking ballads—it was a cacophony that would puzzle any alien audiologist.

But it was the power of slobber—something we had thought little of—that turned the tide. It gummed up their gizmos and fizzled their phasers. Slobber, my friends, it seems, is universal kryptonite.

As the beings retreated, leaving behind nothing but the echoes of their alien squeals, we canines rejoiced. Pawsburgh was safe once again, its peace restored by paw and jaw.

And so here I sit, Theodore, noble sable Rough Collie, regaling you this tall tale under the steadfast stars. Perhaps it’s mere fantasy, a dream spun on the loom of doggy slumber. But then again, fantasy is where a collie like me lives best, painting days upon the canvas of imagination, chasing balls, and now, I suppose, repelling extraterrestrial invasions.

Oliver winks at me, “That’s one for the pups,” he says. And I smile, thinking how our adventures would taste like chicken to the ears of our human friends, savory and seasoned with a bit of the spice of affection—and not a Brussels sprout in sight.

The End.