Hey buddy! Oscar the Sausage here, fresh from legend-making in ol’ Pawsburgh. Just snagged the Bone of Destiny amidst an epic dust-up in Mastiff Meadows with the posse. Turns out, a short-legged hero’s journey ain’t just for storybooks—it’s real life, if you’ve got the nose for it. Catch ya soon for some scratches and tail-wagging tales. 🐾 – Oscar

Listen to the story here

In the dusty trails of ol’ Pawsburgh, where the sun bathes the land in hues of gold and amber, there lies a tale of a dachshund with the demeanor of an outlaw and the charm of a gambler – yours truly. My name’s Oscar, of Oscar the Sausage, if you’re in the mood for formalities or just Oscar, which suits me fine as I dodge beneath the saloon doors of Chihuahua’s Chimichangas.

“You’re late,” grumbles Rufus, his jowls heavy with the weight of his past heroics. He’s a grizzled ol’ mutt, retired from the rescue brigade, with more stories than the Pawsburgh Gazette.

I wear a smirk, my ears twitch in that comic manner you all find so endearing. “A dog does have to maintain some air of mystery,” I retort.

Rufus rolls his eyes, while Whiskers, lurking in the shadows atop the piano, purrs in agreement. He knows the value of mystery – never could tell what that cat was up to, up on those fences.

We are scoundrels of Sapphire Schnauzer Street, each a character out of a storybook you’d hide from your pups. We are the kind that would wager our last biscuit on a game of bones. Today, however, our quest’s a pinch more curious, a shade braver.

“Word has it,” I begin, relishing the attention as every pair of eyes in the joint hones in on me, “that out in Mastiff Meadows, amid the tall grasses where the land whispers secrets, lies a bone… The Bone of Destiny.”

A collective gasp dances through the air. Every dog knows The Sock of Destiny, my legendary sock-turned-tug-of-war-trophy, but this here bone is a fable, a myth, whispered on the breeze to young pups snuggled in their beds.

Rufus sighs, tail wagging faintly with the itching of adventure beneath his aging paws. “Now, Oscar, don’t be spinning tales again—”

But I’m on a roll. “Now hold your tails,” I interrupt. “This ain’t your everyday bone. This one’s whispered to hold secrets of the past and future, like a canine crystal ball if you will.”

Leaning against the bar is Daisy, a collie with a bartender’s knack for eavesdropping. She chimes in, her voice smooth as the gravy Todd – my beloved human – uses to distract me from his horrendous singing, “If anyone could find it, Oscar, it’d be you.”

The next morning’s sun finds me saying howdy to Pinscher Plaza with the stealth of a shadow. The Sock of Destiny dangles from my mouth, and at my side, my posse ambles with the confidence only true companions can muster.

The journey is long, dust kicking up from our heels, whispers of Spaniel Spaghetti wafting on the air from yonder, but we press on. I lead, my short stature a paradox against the largeness of my spirit.

We reach the meadows, where the grass sways like a sea under the vast open sky – Pawsburgh’s wild, untamed heart. I take a sniff, my senses sharper than the edge of a kitten’s claw. And then, beneath the earth, where only noses such as mine can sense, my quest ends – and begins.

What follows, dear friend, is a scene etched in Pawsburgh legend. The earth flies, the grass rustles, and the Bone of Destiny – grand as the stories that will sprout from its discovery – gleams in my proud jaws as I resurface.

With the sundown casting our shadows long against the land we’ve claimed as our own, we head home, our paws treading tales into the dust.

The next time you see me, sprawled on that sunny patch of grass, know that beneath this jesting exterior lies the heart of a Western hero.

And as for that bone, well, let’s just say it might be nothing more than an ordinary old femur – but in my mouth, in our Pawsburgh, it’s a relic of a tale well lived, and the promise of countless more. The twist? You’ll only get to hear the next one if you scratch me behind the ears. Good talkin’ to ya, partner.

The End.