Hey human,

Just checking in to let you know that last night got wild! Turned into an ambassador for Earth in an impromptu alien playdate in Pawsburgh. Saved the town from intergalactic party poopers with my wobble of authority. Left our mark on the universe – and scored some out-of-this-world toys! Who knew chubby legs could make history, huh?

Wags and snags,
Fat Fat 🌟🐾

Listen to the story here

Legends, I have thought before, often reside in unlikely vessels, and so it was on a particularly star-embellished night when I, Fat Fat by name, found myself an unlikely hero in the chronicles of intermittent insanity that so often dot the landscapes of canine and human life alike.

I had ambled, you see, with the customary wobble that betrays my zestful soul, to the fabled Pawsburgh – the secret town where I trade the shackles of my relaxed human existence for something more lively. There, amid Newfoundland Nook’s shadowy tales and the glow of Schnauzer Street, I was a lupine counterpart to a baron in his court, my every wobble a decree and my bark a herald’s trumpet.

But this is not just a fluffy yarn to chase; it’s a saga. That particular evening, with Blitzen’s graceful pant and Schnitzel’s lively yap alongside me – we trespassed into adventure beyond the picturesque vistas of Setter Shore, the warm and beaming faces of Shepherd’s Shawarma patrons serving as our backdrop.

Our muzzles were set for The Woofy Bakery, those pastries and their savory scents lacing my dreams more tightly than the leash my owner thinks necessary. But before the first bite could be dreamt into existence, our stroll ground to a halt, whiskers quivering, tails frozen mid-wag. There, hanging in the sky like a treat just out of reach, was a contraption – it was unnatural, an eyesore against the backdrop of the nightly waltz of the celestial.

“Chaps,” I muttered, borrowing the colloquialisms of our forebears, “We, it appears, stand at the precipice of something… extraterrestrial.”

Blitzen’s eyes narrowed; Schnitzel let out a bark that hinted he was ready to tussle with whatever dared disrupt our midnight caper.

The object descended with the subtlety of an untrained pup in a porcelain shop. At Puppy Plate, they spilled onto the streets, chicken legs forgotten. Even the connoisseur canines at Beagle Bagels left their rounds half-nibbled, seeing the glint of the otherworldly guest.

And then, it landed – a spaceship, its hull gleaming with a sheen unlike the wink I give for an extra scratch behind the ears.

Our bark was a collective uproar, but would it serve as a barrier, a warning, or a mere footnote in the grand orchestration of the intergalactic intruders?

I could not outrun this fear as I do the crack of thunder; no bed was broad enough to hide beneath from this ominous spectacle. We, motley and magnificent, formed an unwitting line of defence, paws planted firmly against the cobblestone. The door to the spacecraft hissed open, and beings – slight and silvery, with stars for eyes and gravity-defying limbs – disembarked.

“Blimey,” I thought, “We didn’t invite them. The nerve!”

Did they come for our bones, our parks, our comfortable spots on the foot of the bed? Instead, they brought… toys. Toys that hovered, toys that lit up the night, making our mundane squeakers seem but a pup’s trinket. They did not speak, but their intent was clear – communication through the universal language of play.

So, we played. We ran with aliens, tails high, laughter barking against the sky, until they, satisfied, departed, leaving behind only memories and, mercifully, the toys.

My person asks why I rest more soundly these nights. If tails could but talk the tales of Pawsburgh, what chronicles they would weave. But there it is; every meeting with me, Fat Fat, is indeed a new chapter, and on that night, I was not just friend but a sentinel, an unwitting ambassador to the paws and claws that walk this Earth.

The End.