Hey fam,

Just another night on the beat in Pawsburgh. Tail’s been twirling through more twists than a corkscrew — dug into the town’s secrets like burying a bone. Sniffed around the shady sides of town and played jazz with the city’s whispers. Still, under these stars, my heart’s doing a solo no jazz can touch. Remember, it’s not the size of the pup in the fight, but the size of the fight in the pup! Catch you when the sun’s up.

Woofs and wags,
Finn 🐾

Listen to the story here

The sun don’t shine ‘pon Pawsburgh after dark. I reckon it’s got better places to be. I lift my head, wariness turning every night-time rustle into a potential caper. I’m Finn, and this place with its dimly lit lanterns, casting shadows across cobblestone, is my beat. In the tranquillity before the moon climbs up high, I take to the winding alleys and hushed locales, where the honest dogs dream and the craftier ones set to work.

It begins like any night in the life of a dog about my size and ambition. Trotting through Quartz Qimmiq Quarter, I spy the glint off something not meant for the pure-hearted. I pass The Wagging Tail Bookstore, its windows dark but for a faint flicker in the back. Usually, I’d pay it no mind, but tonight, my hide bristles. The town’s got an underbelly, and it ain’t always ticklish. I know the stakes; they’re the same as a bone buried too deep—you might never get it out, but you dig anyway.

Leaving the Quarter in my wake, I whistle past Onyx Otterhound Oasis, stray tunes of Jazz mingling with the mist. Those huskies think they own the joint, catering to the rough and tumble. But a Yorkie’s got to know his limitations and play the game by ear. My paws ache for a rest, and righteousness ain’t always company enough. The air smells like trouble, and trouble smells a lot like chicken stix. That’s one scent sure to quicken my step.

There’s a pulse to Pawsburgh, jive and jam, all wrapped up in a riddle. Husky’s Hotcakes, beacon for the hungry and rundown, wears the night like a second fur. Says closed, but the aroma tells a story of batter and syrup. And me, well, I’m about as indignant as a toad in a teacup. Something ain’t adding up, and with a snout like mine, I’m fixed on summing the odds.

Slinking around back, the gutter whispers gossip to the stars, and I listen. A door creaks—a dog slinks out. It’s no pancake affair, this meeting of minds and mutts, and my tail curls tighter than a question mark. I reckon even the best of us can fall off the wagon if the biscuits are buttery enough.

By the whiskers of my chin, I follow the scent, down past Pawprint Pizzeria, where the Pepperoni plays second-fiddle to plots cooked hotter than the ovens. No rest for the keen. The trail leads me to Paw Pad Thai, flickering neon casting shadows on velvet paws clandestine as the night. Word is, it’s a front, like a bone in a sock—a hide for something far less savory.

Then, the moon, bold as brass, spills its milky glow on my own safe quarter, a place no other soul knows. The whispers of Pawsburgh fade like the last slurp of a doggone good soup, and I’m alone, but for the echo of my own thoughts. It’s solace and sanctuary, and I’d not trade it for a king’s ransom in rawhide.

Back on the street, there’s work to be done, a symphony of secrets to unravel. You won’t catch this Yorkie swimmin’ with the fishes—that’s a displeasure I’ll gladly skip. But coax me with chicken stix, and I’ll dive headfirst into the murkiest of mysteries.

I’m Finn. They say I’ve got the courage of a lion, and maybe that’s why I fancy that humble chewed-up toy. Grandeur ain’t in how big you are; it’s in the size of your heart. And under this watchful, star-speckled sky, mine beats a rhythm no jazz can match, ticking away the seconds till dawn returns to Pawsburgh, where the stories are as plentiful as the biscuits, and a day in the life can lead a little dog down some mighty big roads.

The End.