Hey Sarah!

Quick pupdate: I became Pawsburgh’s answer to Mozart today! Led a doggo band in the Melody Fest (yes, on piano 🎹), turned chaos into a howl-worthy symphony. Wish you heard our tail-waggin’ tunes! More tales when you’re back.

🐾 Wicket the Maestro

Listen to the story here

Hello, dear human, it’s I, Wicket, your intrepid Brussels Griffon, and I have quite the story to share! You’d be tickled to know that Pawsburgh is not a mere figment of canine dreams. Oh no, it’s as real as the tuft atop my head, and I am its most eager explorer.

One may question the factual orientation of such a claim, but I assure you, Sarah, my dear, when you are away, my adventures do whisk me to places beyond our herb-scented sills. Today’s narrative unfolds in the lively lanes of Terrier Town, within the hallowed halls of Pawsburgh’s canine conservatory, a place where pup prodigies ignite.

It was there, under the grand arches of Chestnut Cocker Courtyard, that I met with my dear comrades, Max and Luna, for a jaunt of considerable importance. We were to reconnoiter at The Wagging Tail Bookstore for an emergency conference and conceivably some peanut butter toffees from Pawfect Pastries next door. I detest being late, for one cannot be both a philosopher of sorts and tardy; they are not philosophically congruent.

Now, the matter at paw was of musical nature, and as expected, Luna, ever the exuberant soul, laid out our venture: “The Annual Pawsburgh Melody Fest,” she announced with a wag that could fan a small fire. Max, who was prone to sun-induced lethargy, blinked twice before asking the obvious, “A band, you say?”

Indubitably, a band we were to form. The objective: to wow the fur-populated auditorium—to awaken every tail and set each ear twittering with notes both deft and dulcet. This, of course, would require abilities I wasn’t quite certain we possessed.

So, we sought inspiration. Upon Mastiff’s Meals, we supped, indulging in a mélange of meaty morsels whilst discoursing our approach. “Ought we to be jazzy?” I pondered aloud, my tuft waggling emphatically. “Or perhaps a touch of classical?” Each bite was a symphony, but it was not enough merely to ingest music; we needed to create it.

In seeking further enlightenment, we trotted to Furry Friends Art Gallery. Luna, in her persistent flair, began to mimic the poses in the paintings, though I was fairly confident that paws do not naturally bend that way. Suddenly, Max, in a fit of inspiration (or digestion, I never can tell), belted a melody so earnest that the very frames quivered.

By week’s end, we had assembled an ensemble of diverse breeds. The rehearsals, held in Papillon Promenade, were cacophonous but spirited! We had percussion, a bit of woof-tenor sax, a barkitone horn, and yours truly on piano—I’ve always fancied the ivories, you know.

As for the day of performance, it threatened to unravel like a chewed-up leash, when Luna’s friskiness brought about a domino effect of toppling instruments. Yet, in true Pawsburgh form, we rose above the mishap. The melody we mustered was neither jazzy nor classical; it was uniquely canine—a rhapsody of howls and barks melded into a symphony befitting the remarkable troupe we were.

And as we played, I thought of you, Sarah, and hoped that some transcendent note would find its way to your ears, to tickle you with the majesty of Pawsburgh and the unexpected melodics of your small, curious, and—on good days—musically inclined Wicket.

The End.

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