Hey human,

Jethro here, the furry hero of Pawsburgh. Today I rallied the canine troops to face an earthquake, outwitting chaos with a wag and a bark. Great save at Whippet Way, and despite the scare, we’re all tail-thumps up. Promenade’s a mess, but our paws are ready for round two. Jumbotron’s legend grows!

Tail wags,
Jethro

Listen to the story here

They tell you Pawsburgh is magical, but nobody mentions how it dances on the tightrope of disaster, as do I, Jethro, the so-called Mosaic Masterpiece, a title truly befitting a dog of my patchwork elegance. They tout my knack for befriending creatures of a timid disposition, yet it’s a skill no match for the day’s unprecedented turn. To tell the tale, I recline with a sigh, dictating, as my paws lack the dexterity for ink and quill.

This morning, the air’s usual lilting perfume of jasmine was blotted out by a tang of distress; a foul prelude to the chaos to ensue. The town, like a well-worn sock, had frayed at the edges, and we, its canine residents, were about to be swallowed whole by the unexpected.

The day began innocently enough. As is customary, I pilfered away to Pawsburgh, soccer ball in tow, my sights set on Pearl Papillon Promenade.

“You’re a picture, Jethro,” Clara would muse, had she seen me gallivanting along, the wind my invisible consort.

But calamity struck as we gathered at Dog’s Delicacies, a crowd of us – Ziggy vibrating with an energy that could light the town, and Marley, sagacious as ever, musing into his fourth bowl of beef stew.

A tremor, slight at first, like the twitch of a dreaming pup, crescendoed, causing the ground to buck beneath our paws. Earthquake! The very word sent a murmur around, whiskers twitching in disbelief. Collectively, we halted our feasting, cutlery clinking its tragic dirge.

Marley’s howl sliced through the din, a bass note against the treble of panic. “To Whippet Way!” he commanded. “The open space, away from tumbling debris!”

We surged as one, a river of fur and jowls and frantic tails – mine, included. Back on our quartet of paws, albeit momentarily, I espied the promenade I so adored, the scene akin to a painter’s brush run amok.

“A close shave,” I panted to Ziggy, navigating a downpour of pamphlets and signage from Corgi’s Crepes. “If life gives you lemons, my boy, do remember they bite back.”

Ziggy, sans proprietor of the moment, nodded gravely, mistaking philosophy for a promise of play.

At Whippet Way, we huddled, a tapestry of terror and resilience, my friends and I pressed close, a living fable of Pawsburgh’s spirit.

“This, too, shall pass,” I assured them, or perhaps myself, a mantra against the threat of disarray.

“We stand united, even if our beloved Pawsburg falls,” proclaimed Marley, whose words fell upon the throng like treats from above.

After endless moments, when the shaking subsided into a grim memory, we emerged, zigzagging through pathways littered with trials — felled signboards, the odd crêpe fluttering like a defeated flag.

My favorite toy, the companion of many a sunset dash, lay abandoned in what remained of the promenade, a tribute to playtimes past. I gathered it in my mouth, the familiar texture a comfort amidst turmoil.

“This old friend has seen better days,” I mumbled around the deflated rubber, “but none quite as dire as this.”

My animated presence garnered a chuckle or two, pulling on that intrinsically canine tapestry that comforts without words.

Amid the rubble, our resilience surfaced, turning disaster to revelry. Tail wags turned to excavating, paws to rebuilding.

And so, with the throb of Pawsburgh’s near-demise still pulsing through our hearts, we stood shoulder to shoulder, resolved that by nightfall, our humans would have no tale of woe to hear. Instead, a story of dogged spirit would be whispered as a lullaby, a testament to their loyal companions—us dogs, who understand more than credit is given, and who live to wag another day.

The End.