Hey there!

I’m Ava Kailey Bree – aka Crusoe’s Rottweiler rival – and I’m currently playing the lead in a real tail-wagger of a tale. Our game of fetch turned into a shipwreck saga on an island that’s off the Pawsburgh map. Survival’s a new ball game here, but with my wits, Jasper’s snooze-detective skills, and Maggie’s Lab wisdom, we’re making this Adventure Isle our own storybook. Missing the dog park, but making do with starry nights and storytelling. Send treats and a lifeboat!

Woof ya later,
A.K. Bree 🐾

Listen to the story here

Ah, the twist and turns of a dog’s life. You know, it all started one crisp morning, when the sun seemed to have a particularly mischievous glint in its eye. There I was, Ava, just a Rottweiler with a penchant for philosophical musings and a knack for finding myself in the thick of an adventure, amid a conundrum of the canine kind.

I awoke not to the familiar scents of Leonardtown, but to the salty sea air of a deserted island – and no, it wasn’t Crusoe’s abode, but Pawsburgh’s very own Adventure Isle, the kind whispered about in hushed barks at Paw-lickin’ Pancakes. Jasper, the Beagle, snored to my left – where he could find sleep in such predicament was beyond me, and Maggie, the wise Labrador, gazed at the horizon with what I surmised was stoic concern.

The charade that led us here was as comical as it was accidental; a rogue frisbee, a boat cunningly resembling Cavalier Cove’s finest, and an untimely nap. As the human world says, ‘Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ but as Jasper puts it, “Bark at being in the right place for a righteous adventure!”

Now, survival, you see, isn’t about the biggest brawns or the sharpest teeth; it’s about wits. And if I ever claimed to have a thing in spades, it isn’t the ability to hold my tongue – it is, unequivocally, wits.

“Coffee would rouse Jasper,” I mused, looking at the Dozing Detective next to me. Realizing the futility, I turned to Maggie with a droll deadpan, “I suppose Doggie Diner doesn’t deliver to desert islands?”

“Chin up, Ava,” she replied with a wag of her tail. “If Pawsburg has taught us anything, it’s that every dog has its day. And today, we sniff ours.”

Our culinary options were limited to foraging – a concept vaguely insulting to my noble responses to chunky chicken but compelling in our current state. Not a Pawfect Pastry in sight, and the olives? Thankfully, none.

We set up camp using flotsam and bark, quite a chic aesthetic, if you asked me. Our day was filled with feral escapades that could put any Pawsitively Purrfect Pet Store’s ‘Survival’ aisle to shame. We made ropes from vines (which, I admit, did not quite have the same joyous resistance of my preferred knotted plaything) and fashioned a shelter that had the relaxed look of a Furry Friends Art Gallery after an excited opening night.

I’ve always considered myself an “intra-dependant” pup, but I must concede, companionship turned out to be the main staple on our menu of survival. Jasper proved surprisingly adept at finding fresh water, assuming every uncharted puddle was a water hole, while Maggie – with her sage-like mien – provided much-needed counsel when my strength lent itself to impatience.

The island, with all its unforeseen camaraderie, was nothing short of enchanted. Yet the yearning for home, with its reliable comforts and predictable routines, chewed at us more tenaciously than my teeth on the steadiest bone.

As twilight fell upon us, the island seemed less like Crusoe’s lonely domain and more like Pawsburgh’s magical appendage, a plot of land where stories are nurtured. Together, we sat at the Pearl Papillon Promenade, as much a construct of our island as of our collective longing, and told tales of home that would make even the most stoic of dogs whimper with nostalgia. Perhaps tomorrow will grant us a grand escapade, a ride home on the backs of dolphins or the maritime equivalent of a taxi. Or perhaps, just more time for an uncharted friendship to bloom in this lost, canine Eden.

Tomorrow, indeed. You know what they say, don’t you? ‘The sun’ll come out…tomorrow.’ So clever, those humans. Well, until then, we have this – our very own Doggie Island, a survival story in the making, and it’s far better than any dreamt up in the soft luxury of a Leonardtown bed.

The End.