Hey Feeder-of-Treats 🐾,

Guess who went spin-cycling through time in a wacky Tunneler and played tag with history’s tails?! Met mastodons, barked at a mailman monarchy, and had high tea with dapper dogs. Got tales taller than the Tower of Terriers to share! Pawsburgh’s time-traveling fluffball has returned! 🕰️🐶🌀

Wags and whiskers,
Hope (a.k.a. The Chrono Canine) ✨🐾

Listen to the story here

The golden haze of dawn had barely kissed the green earth when I, Hope, found myself standing once again on the cobbled streets of Pawsburgh. My paws itched with the familiar thrill of anticipation—this wasn’t just any old town for tail-waggers, but a hub for hounds who harbored hearts hungry for adventure.

You know me. My fluff could mop the floor if I desired, which, I must confess, Feeder-of-Treats suggested more times than I care for. But on this particular morn, my ears pitched to adventure, led me to a curious contraption squatting in Amber Akita Alley, nestled between The Doggy Depot and The Barking Boutique, establishments of high repute.

The device in question seemed to hum, a rhythmic pulse much like my metronomic tail when satisfaction sweeps over me. Its surface was an otherworldly blend of sapphire blue and a dash of Shiba Inlet sunset orange, a stark contrast to the assortment of grays and browns that made the alley. A lone sign hung over it, boldly proclaiming “Time Tunneler.” I didn’t know where it came from or why, but the pull towards it was as irresistible as the sound of a squeaky duck in full terror.

Let me tell you, I’ve no idea what sage voodoo or witch-marketing scheme led me into that mysterious machine, but one swift paw press on the luminescent panel and colors swirled. Such a dizziness overtook me that I might’ve thought I’d eaten those dastardly greens—ah, broccoli. Then, I found myself no longer in Pawsburgh, not even close.

Here I was, in a meadow where ancient hairy woofers roamed. Oh, Feeder-of-Treats, if you could see me now! I pranced among mastodons, chased prehistoric squirrels—the ones that didn’t climb trees but dug like gophers. Baxter would’ve renounced rabbit-chasing altogether for this.

Just when a sense of accomplishment began to inflate within me—yes, a conqueror of times vanished—there was another strangeness. The Tunneler beeped, like the final defiant squeak of my rubber ducks, and the colors danced again. The next place it delivered me to, to my absolute horror, was a world ruled by mailmen, overloaded with their endless supply of letters, packages, parcels!

I barked; oh, how I barked. At them, at the Tunneler, at the sheer gall of this intrusive world, until, mercifully, colors collided once more.

I’ve heard Feeder-of-Treats mention Vonnegut, whoever that is, always with a strange lilt of voice and far-off eyes—perhaps this is precisely the conversation we’d have over a grilled chicken slice—if I were a ‘Sir Bark-a-lot’ indeed.

Now landed in an era garbed splendidly in whimsy and steam, where great wheels and gears turned, and dogs donned top hats and monocles, I trotted down Sapphire Schnauzer Street with a dignity that any Maltese mixed with royal stubbornness would possess. I dined finely at Shepherd’s Shawarma, where scents of exotic spices and meats filled the air, my palate appeased as if the whispers of herbs had floated from the Tunneler itself.

It’s here that I found familiar eyes—Whiskers’, a feline with a purr that dared contest the Tunneler’s hums and whirs. Companionship in odd places, it seems, transcends even time.

As the Tunneler called me back to Pawsburgh with a whir that meant home, I considered how I’d relay these escapades to my ragtag team and, of course, Feeder-of-Treats. They’d listen, heads cocked, as I spun tales of time-traveled triumphs, adventures across epochs—my tail keeping time, like the trustiest of metronomes.

But for now, let Pawsburgh slumber a little longer. For Hope has chased leaves across the winds of time, and each rustle was nothing short of extraordinary.

The End.