Hey Mom,

You won’t believe it, I’m a doggone hero! Delved into medieval times via Opal Pk, saved a bulldog damsel, became a market spectacle, and came back wagging tales for the locals. Canine capers at its best! Pawsburgh now has a dish named after me! More deets at dinner. 😄🐾

Licks and Wags,
Walter Matthau

Listen to the story here

Ah, I suppose you’re expecting a tale, one woven with the brisk tail-wind of adventure, a yarn spun on the loom of time itself—and I, Walter, your most humble and whiskered narrator, shall endeavour to recount my escapade. My tale begins one unsuspecting, I’d say quite mundane, Monday morning in Pawsburgh.

I sauntered through the twisty turfs of Dachshund Dale, my ears tuned to the morning gossip buzzing like bees on a sugar rush. Now, between you and me, Dale’s grapevine could sour the sweetest of berries, but it’s where one stumbles upon the juiciest bits.

“Good day, Walter,” quipped a terrier with a monocle, “Off to chase quantum butterflies again?”

I wagged in delight, having found out that my escapades were already the stuff of legend. “Why, Mr. Snuffles, time waits for no dog,” I hooted.

You see, Pawsburgh, in all its canine charm, was also home to the bone-shaped time-travel gateway nestled right there in Opal Pomeranian Park. I, being an aficionado of tennis balls, tomatoes, and, well, the occasional jaunt through history, simply couldn’t resist the allure.

As the park’s ornate gateway triggered by the scent of adventure stood in wait, I sniffed around, ’cause let’s face it, decorum dictates a decent dig or two. With the brisk thrust of my hind legs, I leaped through—paws first.

Where I landed was a sight: luscious green all around, the air a hymn of historic hustle, and the essence of tomato-whiffed breezes. I’d landed smack dab in the middle of Medieval England, where serfs and nobles alike mucked about with feudal fervour and, frankly, rather underappreciated hygiene.

“Tis a strange beast,” a child pointed at me, “It dances with shadows!”

Turning briskly on my paws, it wasn’t but a blink before I subjected myself entirely to the merriment around. I snatched a rogue tomato, sent rolling from a merchant’s stall in the commotion, savouring the flavour of antiquity.

However, not all was feast and follies; for in this archaic age, I spotted a distressed damsel—a bulldog in a bonnet, her leash caught between the cobblestones. “Fear not, Lady Bullington,” I called, “Walter is here!” With a gallant tug and a dash of charm, I freed her, and together we promenaded through the market, a pair of oddly-dressed yet dashing canines.

The chimes of mischief tingled in my esophagus, turning heads with our tailored finery from The Tail Wagger’s Tailor, an establishment of some considerable repute.

“My saviour,” Lady Bullington crooned, her wrinkles folding into a smile, “How dost I ever repay such courage?”

“A tale to tell at Labrador Lunch,” I proclaimed with a wag. “Back in Pawsburgh, where Bark Buffet serves a dish named in my honour—Walter’s Wondrous Whim.”

Yet as dusk hugged the horizon, an itching tickled behind my floppy ears. ‘Twas time to skedaddle—or rather skdoodle—to familiar grounds. A paw onto the time-worn stone, a wriggle of my snout, and with a gloriously undignified sneeze, I once again stood in Pawsburgh’s embrace.

And just like that, the game was afoot—or a-paw, I suppose. I ambled to Pawfect Pastries with tales ripe for the baking and a draft of delicious dalliances dribbling from my tongue.

So there, my friends, you have it—a snippet of my chronicle, an anecdote of time-furled frolic. But this beagle must sign off, as another gateway beckons and Pawsburgh wouldn’t be the same without a sprinkle of Walter to end the day.

And remember, when your world weighs anchor, ponder my escapades, and may a beagle’s boundless zest be with you—through every dig, dash, and delightfully mischievous day.

The End.