Hey there,

Just wanted to drop you a quick update from your favourite canine correspondent – ol’ Yeags. You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had! I led the pack against an alien invasion, rocking Mrs. Hamilton’s gloves as our battle flag. Spoiler alert: we won, Pawsburgh’s safe, and the aliens skedaddled faster than cats from a cold bath. Remember, every dog has its day, and today was definitely mine. 🐾

Tail wags and chin scratches,
Yeags

Listen to the story here

I, Yeager, am not a hound of small words or meek adventures. This particular crisp morning found the sun stretching its golden fingers over the hills of Pawsburgh, entwining the tendrils of light through the leaves, casting illuminated spots on my cream fur as I trotted to my perch in Memorial Park.

It was not an ordinary day, no, it was a day that would stand tail and snout above the rest. That would be the day the sky broke open, giving birth to the extraordinary — an alien invasion right in the heart of our canine utopia.

But let’s not get carried away just yet. I was lounging peacefully, contemplating whether Mrs. Hamilton’s gardening gloves truly complemented my fur, when Rosie bounded to me, her beagle ears flapping like flags heralding trouble.

“Yeager!” she bayed, “You’ve got to come see this.” Her excitement sent ripples through the ranks of wild daisies at our paws.

I sighed, one of those sighs that huffed from deep within my barrel chest. “Can’t it wait, Rosie? I’ve nearly cracked the code of sunshine and shadow here.” But her nose was twitching so fiercely it could only mean something was afoot.

“Something’s coming,” Baxter rumbled as he ambled towards us, his jowls wobbling with the intensity of our impending reality. Even Whiskers, who rarely descends from his lofty perch atop the Dapper Dog Salon, joined us with a flick of his tail, his feline eyes wide with a curiosity that mirrored our own.

And then we saw it — a great gleaming disc descending, slicing through the cerulean sky towards Shiba Inlet. Panic, like the scent of a thousand overturned garbage cans, began to spread. Dogs everywhere stopped their frolics and feasts, staring up as one —Poodle’s Pasta abandoned, Paw-lickin’ Pancakes uneaten.

“There goes the neighborhood, quite literally,” I quipped, but my joke fell flat against the gravity of the moment.

But what is dogkind if not resilient? “To Akita Alley!” I commanded. Our course of action was clear — we would stand paw in paw and do what our kind has done since the dawn of time. Bark at the unknown until it fleets or friends us.

We arrived with gusto, spreading the rally howls to the Four Paws Wind. “Ye olde beasties from above, we’re not interested in any cosmic roughhousing today!” I bellowed to the visitors, displaying my most imperious posture, Mrs. Hamilton’s gardening gloves now firmly clenched in my jaws like banners of valor.

The squadron of spaceships halted, hovering, it seemed, on the sheer power of our canine courage. Then, with the subtlety of a cat doing something it pretends it meant to do all along, the crafts spun and rose, disappearing into the cosmos from whence they came.

As tenuous normality resumed, Pawsburgh returned to its customary cheer. That night, the dogs dined out on tales of the day’s exploits; Wagging Whisk was abuzz with stories of bravery and alien antics.

Mrs. Hamilton would find her gloves, returned to their rightful place among her roses, placed with the care one reserves for the most esteemed of trophies. She would never know of their brief moment in the battle between dog and the final frontier.

As I settled on my usual knoll overlooking the place of action, with a stuffed squirrel nestled against my side, I reflected on the day’s adventure. “Another regular day in Pawsburgh,” I mused. The stars twinkled knowingly, the universe a bit larger, and our hearts a touch braver.

The End.