Hey hooman 🐾✨,
Just wanted to let you know that in the world of Pawsburgh, I’m a secret aristocrat at night, dazzling with moonlit fur and engaging in courtly canine capers for the coveted throne. Between you and me, I seek a reign of peace in this furry Game of Thrones. But when dawn arrives, I’m back to being your loyal Amber, keeper of dreams and fetcher of sticks.
Wags and whiskers,
Amber 🐕👑

Listen to the story here

As the twilight whispers crept into the corners of the cottage I once considered my domain, the delightful unearthliness of Pawsburgh beckoned. I, Amber, with a soul enrobed in black and tan, ventured into the night where a Game of Thrones awaited—tailored for the canine kin.

Under the gaze of a crescent moon, I shook off the last remnants of the mortal world’s cling and sprinted towards Topaz Terrier Town. My paws knew the path as well as they knew the scent of roast chicken—the stuff of dreams. We, the nobles of Pawsburgh, often congregated there to plot and to ponder; for the throne of the Dog Kingdom was without an heir since the noble Greyhound passed, and tensions ran as high as the spirits in Pointer Pier.

First, I paid respects to The Pampered Pooch Salon for a touch of armor—a sheen upon my coat. “Make it glisten like moonlight on water,” said I to the poodle who knew her craft as well as any bard. With a courteous nod, she spun her magic, and forth I trotted, my coat a tapestry of night and fire.

At the heart of Topaz Terrier Town, amidst the bustle of paws and the murmur of plotted schemes, I found my fellow courtiers. The Boxer, a fellow of pure heart and stout paws, eyed me with a bright gaze. “Thou art radiant, friend Amber,” he barked. A fine friend, though ill-suited for deception and whispered alliances—his tail too prone to wagging when secrets were close.

The agenda was clear. Allies and eyes were needed. And so, I set forth to Cocker Courtyard, where whispers took root like the cobblestones were ears themselves. I nodded to the cat—a sleek, odd creature perched near a fountain, the self-appointed master of secrets. An unnerving ally, but necessary in these times of unrest.

The sun was a distant memory, and the torches of Pawsburgh flickered like the stars had fallen to keep us company. The Chowhound’s Chophouse—a neutral ground, or so the proprietors claimed—I chose for my next maneuver. The fragrant air was thick with plots, and I chose a table where the candlelight danced like sprites across my food.

Upon the order, “A dish of your finest roast chicken for the lady,” a hush fell. Eyes turned to the German Shepherd dining alone, and I felt the weight of their curiosity heavy as a bear. “And silence for the atmosphere,” I added, with the slightest curl of a smile. An understanding swept the room, as only dogs could feel—a game was afoot.

As I savored my dinner with eyes closed and a blissful expression, a mongrel approached my table with a deferential dip of his head. He spoke of the Rottweiler, the Beagle, the Doberman—all vying for the empty throne. Yet, in his tone lay a question, who did I serve?

My gaze caught the flicker of a candle as I considered this. With poise, I spoke in low, measured tones, “The throne demands not strength alone, but wisdom, loyalty, a noble heart. Mark well, my friend, for the throne I seek is one where all paws may rest in peace.”

The moon was waning when I finally left the convivial clamor of Pawsburgh behind, my paws carrying me back to the world that knew not of these throny affairs. I returned to my kindly old soul, settling beside him with a tale in my heart as grand as life itself.

And when the first light of day broke, a glint in my eyes betrayed the secret of Pawsburgh—where every night, a throne awaited, and every dog, a kingdom of dreams.

The End.