Hey Artie,

Guess what? Your boy Bentley became the accidental cartographer of chaos in Pawsburgh today! Tried to lead the pack to Ribs, got lost, chased my tennis ball into trouble, and ended up turning mishaps into a feast of giggles and chicken at Golden Grub. May not have been the initially planned heroic tale, but I’ve got tails wagging with laughter anyway. 😂🐾

Your slobbery strategist,
Bentley

Listen to the story here

It was just another ordinary day; the sun was content in its aquamarine sky, and I – Bentley, the bulldog – had just relinquished myself from the cozy confines of my beloved home, into the enchanting and unseen doggy utopia they call Pawsburgh. I dipped my plump paws into the talk of the town, a narrow alley, affectionately coined as Bichon Boulevard, waddling toward adventure with the heart of a knight, albeit at the pace of a valiant tortoise.

An invitation was discreetly whispered amongst the tail-waggers of Pawsburgh, a grand feast at the esteemed Rottweiler’s Ribs. The thought alone had my stomach serenading me with acapella. Bestowed with the noble quest for juicy treats, I garnered my troop, Sprout and Gus, into what I imagined would be the banquet to pen all banquets.

Sprout, the exuberant jack-of-all-trades but master of none, had already bounded ahead in misguided fervor, licking his chops with anticipation. “This way, gents!” he yipped gleefully. However, his keen nose was as accurate as a weatherman’s forecast, for when we arrived, it was not Rottweiler’s Ribs, but Poodle’s Pasta — a fine establishment — but for one who daydreams of chicken, not so much.

Confusion was afoot, and poor Sprout’s face was the epitome of bewilderment, his fierce tail tucked between his spindly legs. “I swear it was here…” he muttered, his ears drooping like wilted lilies.

Gus, the elder statesdog with a penchant for embellishing yarns, huffed. “We want ribs, young man, not spaghetti!” His guttural baritone echoed off the whimsical walls of shops around The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium.

And then there was I, gentlehearted Bentley stuck betwixt a rock and a hard place; sympathy for Sprout’s honest mistake etched across my doughy face. “Well, gentlemen,” I chortled, hiding my impatience, “let’s not wallow. We shall find our promised feast!”

Our meander turned merry as we trotted – or in my case, waddled with steadfast determination – toward the true Rottweiler’s Ribs across town. A snafu I could peacefully indulge in, had my old tennis ball not decided to part ways from my slobber-soaked jaw, rolling with the jest of a fool into the infamous Weimaraner Woods. “My ball!” I bellowed, horror streaked across my jowls.

Both friends sprang to action, the Woods swallowing us in its leafy laughter. The three of us, an incongruous band, became ensnared in the foliage. I reconstruct the collar-snagging, branch-scratching, squirrel-scaring debacle as though it were lifted from a fable scripted by mischievous gremlins.

Emerging disheveled, with my loyal comrades and treasured tennis ball in tow, we finally stood before Rottweiler’s Ribs — or so I was led to believe. Yet the sign hanging above read, “Golden Grub.” Suddenly, an epiphany pounced upon me with an inaudible chuckle. While in hot pursuit of the mischievous tennis ball, I had pilfered the map from Sprout, and, with equal parts pride and shame, I confessed the mix-up.

We collapsed into sniggers, our bellies aching more from laughter than hunger. In the end, we patronized Golden Grub, feasting on what wasn’t ribs but a surprisingly delicious concoction of roasted chicken. Ah, serendipity!

As the shadows grew long, and our tails told tales of our blunders, we agreed that our misadventures were the true spice of life in Pawsburgh. And as for Artie, my beloved human, I would later embellish my tale with heroic exploits.

So yes, call this day a comedy; but let it be known, every snafu was but a stitch in Pawsburgh’s cap, and for a stout-hearted bulldog named Bentley, life couldn’t be more whimsically perfect.

The End.