Yo, just so you’re in the loop—ya boi Creed, aka the Beacon of Barks, found himself castaway on Castaway Isle. 🏝️ Led a pack of intrepid pups on a wild survival shindig, forging a bond tighter than a new chew toy. We’re about to surf the tail-waves home to Pawsburgh, where the porch light’s always on. Keep a treat ready, we’re coming in hungry! 🐾 #PawsUp
– Creed

Listen to the story here

In the dim light of the breaking dawn, I, Creed—a shimmer of blue-grey coat and a spirit of unbridled mischief—find myself washed ashore on an unfamiliar stretch of land. The tail-end of a wayward dream, perhaps? No, more like the beginning of a rollicking yarn, the kind humans would fancy with a cuppa something warm. But let’s not dally on thoughts of warm beds or chicken delights; there’s survival to consider.

Harrier Harbor, my usual haunt—a place brimming with the tang of sea salt and the lively chitchat of sea-dogs—seems a distant memory. Cavalier Cove, too, with its warm sands where I leave my mark and dash, is now but a wistful echo in my mind. And Mastiff Meadows, where I’d tumble and rollick till the sun dipped low, I long for thee.

When I stir, my loyal bones remind me of last evening’s exploits at The Pooch Playhouse, with echoes of squeakers under siege, and how I left my pals trudging back to owner-claimed territories. Yet, a mist of foggy recall surrounds the event of my getting here—a place that seems untouched by a barker’s bark or the clicking of a well-trimmed claw; an isle, if my sniffer is still worth its salt in treats.

Ah, the scent of adventure stirs stronger than Barker’s Bakery on a fresh morning.

“Pitfalls for a Pitbull, eh?” talks the sea, with its gentle yet teasing lapping at my paws. I muse, and muse well, for thinking is a sport unlike any other. I must gather the others, if others there be, for it’s certainly not just I who’s drifted off course. “Teamwork,” I bark out, “let’s sort our fur from the brine!”

Sure as a bone’s buried deep, my call rallies the bravest of snouts. We, a patchwork of paws and tails—strong, willful, crafty—set forth. A haven, that’s what’s needed, a place of refuge to plan and to ponder. Whisking our way past the barrier of clinging vines, we discover The Isle’s heart, rich and abundant, a place where even the most pampered of pooches could conjure up semblances of home.

But oh, let’s not forget the peckish prowl of our bellies! Sniffer’s Sandwiches and Doggie Diner are nothing but whispers here, replaced by the raw necessity of nature’s pantry. With a twitch of muzzle and whisker, we forage, we hunt; wild trails we sniff out with the cunning that domesticity hasn’t quite dulled.

With the sun climbing high, my coat tells its tale in shimmers and glints, casting me as an unwitting beacon for my newfound pack. We share tales of the soft squeak of toys and the comforts of a good ear scratch—a treat, surely, when the ordeal of ear-cleaning doesn’t tag along like an unwanted flea.

A conundrum wraps its paw around us; getting back won’t be a walk in the park. Not a soul to toss the ball back when we fetch, not a signpost nor a scent of Happy Hounds Dog Walking to lead the way. We’re castaways, daring and dashing, forging alliances in the face of hunger, weather, and the pure unadulterated need to pee where no dog has peed before.

The day wanes, and our stories ebb and flow under a crimson sky. The questions hang, “How now do we return from whence we sprung?”

Oh, but wait—I see it, a light upon the horizon, a signal from a land that knows our names. Pawsburgh calls, or doth my dog’s heart deceive? Salvation twinkles in yon beacon’s gaze, and I feel it in my marrow—it’s time to swim, to paddle the swell of hope that leads all wagging tails home.

With a wag of resolve, I turn to my brethren, “Onwards, to our return voyage and the treats that surely await!”

And in that moment, I know—we know—regardless of the morrow’s gifts or tricks, that the truest survival is but the spirit that rides within us. Be it in Pawsburgh or a place less charted, we thrive, our tails high, our stories rich. Once lost, but always, ever, finding our way back to the warm glow of a familiar porch light and the scent of home.

The End.