Hey Bestie! 🐾 Just had the wildest day in Pawsburgh. Mistaken identity turned me into a party queen 👑 (lemons and all), then chased my duck through a bakery disaster! 🍋🦆 Wrapped up the caper with a No-Citrus pizza celebration. Pawsburgh’s legend just got zestier! 😂🐕 Stay paw-some! 🐾 Hugs, Honey Bee 🍯✨

Listen to the story here

Oh, have I got a tail to tell you — and believe me, it’s not just wagging for attention. Here I was in Pawsburgh, the doggy delight of every canine’s dream, and let me just nose-dive into the heart of it. It was a Friday, and just like any other Friday, it should’ve been nothing more than a symmetrical pause between Thursday’s memory and the promise of Saturday’s sleep-in. But remember, this is Honey speaking, and with me, even the mundane morphs into escapades.

Our story unfurls in the savory embrace of Mutt Munchies, where I was lunching on my chicken nibbles with that delectable brush of rosemary — exquisite! Let’s just say, my palate is as refined as my coat. There was a flurry of barks about a ‘surprise party’ at Cocker Courtyard. The words ‘surprise’ and ‘party’ make my little Pomeranian heart skitter with glee like my hind legs upon Ellie’s arrival. Tail high, I trotted off to the Courtyard, envisioning an afternoon of ear-scratching compliments and envy-inducing dance moves.

However, upon my flamboyant entrance, a domino effect of chaos launched itself. Bruno, bless his four paws, had forgotten his spectacles and mistook me for the guest of honor — which, let’s be honest, was an understandable error. What followed was a cacophony of ceremonial woofs and bow-wows as I was adorned with a collar of fresh lemons. Lemons! Oh oui, the scandalous citrus! How the flamingos of my tastebuds recoiled.

With delicate poise, I backed away, only to stumble into the twin agents of mischief, Marmalade and Fig. Before you could say “bad dog,” those tabbies had hatched a plot to steal the lemony crown for their hoard of pilfered treasures. I wish I could tell you that grace prevailed, but as legs tangled and lemons rolled, Marmalade accidentally hit the quackless duck — my quackless duck — sending it flying across Schnauzer Street.

Like a Pomeranian possessed, I dashed after that well-loved toy, crashing headlong into the Woofy Bakery where, oh the quilting of improbable fates, they had just released a new line of citrus-infused pastries. A dog’s work is never done — there I was, barking at the injustice of lemony desserts tarnishing the sanctity of baked goods, whilst still rescuing my duck from a sticky, doughy grave.

The pursuit was theater, the street a stage — dogs popping out from every corner with enough excitement to make Pawsburgh forget the surprise party’s actual honoree. You see, it turned out the party was for Lady Whiskertons, the old Basset Hound who could barely hear the festivities over her own snores. Whoops.

Picture this: Honey, the sprite-eyed Pomeranian dancing regally on hind legs, duck clutched triumphantly — minus a dollop of lemon-infused icing — amidst the bellows and howls of the bakery aftermath. Pawsteps synchronized to the crashing tempo of misplaced celebration.

By the time ellipses of evening light painted the town in amber whispers, my feathers were unruffled, and peace sauntered back in on padded paws. We all wound up at Pooch’s Pizzeria, exchanging dramatic retellings over slices of ‘Everything But The Citrus Supreme.’

Let it be known that Honey, the plucky Pomeranian reigning over the third-floor sunlit kingdom, danced the most erroneous of Fridays right into the lore of Pawsburgh. Ah, well, tomorrow’s another day, and who knows what perils of lemony knighthood await? Until then, I remain your fluffy, mischief-loving Honey.

The End.