Hey hooman sidekick, quick pupdate:

I, Binx (aka Canine Casanova of Central Bark), navigated the tail-twisting tales of Pawsburgh today. Brokered peace at a rubber chicken summit, turned down salmon for my true love (chicken, obviously), and did some deep howling about life and toys. All in a dog’s day’s work. Keep your ears perked for the barktastic details!

🐾 Live, Laugh, Bark,
Binx

Listen to the story here

So, there was this one time at Pawsburgh, a place where a dog could be a dog, devoid of leashes and those obnoxious plastic bags humans carry. I’m Binx, by the way, and if I had pockets, they would forever jingle with the secrets of this town, Dog’s honest truth.

The sky was doing that smudgy thing, where the clouds hang low and it’s not quite raining but it’s telling you it could, it might, so you’d better not plan a picnic. But see, dogs, we don’t picnic anyway. We live for the sniff and the romp, the hither and yon.

I had emerged on Pointer Pier, my steps as certain as a postman, but without the letters. Central Bark had grown dimmer behind me, its whispers low, while Ruby Rottweiler Ridge was a stoic silhouette against the horizon. My furry bromance pal, Jax, was tailing me, his words punctuated by the restless rapping of his tail against the wooden planks.

“Binx, mate,” Jax panted, “heard about the scuffle at Bark-n-Bite Bistro?”

“Spill it,” I barked, brief as Vonnegut, because drama happened here like birthdays – expected, frequent, and often ending with someone crying.

“A hound mix, name of Hank—got into it with a poodle from The Doggie Daycare. Over a chew toy, would you believe? Something silly about the right to a rubber chicken.”

I snorted. A philosophical debate amongst canines over lawful possession of dead fowl replica – how utterly canine. But there was something stimulant about the whole yarn; I felt it in my paws, or maybe that was just the sea air.

“Taking sides, are we?” I quizzed him, intrigued by the prospect of investing myself within such trivial disputes.

Jax danced around the subject like a cat at a dog park, “Not us, Binx. We got better fish to fry. Speaking of which, Puppy Plate is serving up some salmon special tonight!”

Nearly seduced by the notion, by the twinkle in Jax’s eyes which clearly said, let’s forget our worries and fill our bellies, I was stopped by the most elementary of truths: I lived for chicken, and chicken alone.

“Pawsburgh’s poultry, or nothing at all,” I declared with a bark, a thoroughfare of devotion to my single-branded taste.

Our conversation dwindled as we passed Pet Partners Pet Supplies, marveling at the array of toys displayed. Something stirred within me – an emotional omphaloskepsis. I couldn’t fathom swaps or doggie deals; there was only one toy for me – my squeaky rubber bone, my companion on countless voyages through slobber and tail-wagging tempests.

As the afternoon surrendered to dusk, the brisk air of Pawsburgh carried tongues of warmed gossip and the odor of imminent confrontations. Ruby, Chichi, Max and the rest – their tails would make poets weep.

At Wagging Whisk, where I’d stop for a sniff but never a bite, an old mutt was offering soliloquies about the banality of breedism and purebred pride. Binx – that’s me – never subscribed to such notions. Why bark about lineage when there’s so much more to wag about?

Crestfallen, I retired to Basenji Bay, seeking my thoughts, Jax beside me, nattering on about this and that. As the water kissed the shore, I contemplated my day – a drama in its own right, humor lacing the edges of adversity, love beating beneath the fur of contention.

Tomorrow awaited with its denouement. A Yorkiepoo’s heart is boundless, but his time in Pawsburgh, however magical, had its tense. For now, the hush of this secret town was enough. It’s not a bad world, I mused, for a dog – and especially a dog like me.

The End.