Hey Jamie,

Just another day in Pawsburgh—became a hero by saving the town from the Great Gravy Geyser. We used a flock of rubber chickens to stop the deluge. It was epic! Tell Mom we’ll need more chicken toys. The details are for when I wake up from my victory nap. 🙂

Tail wags and brave barks,
Wyatt

Listen to the story here

Oh, Pawsburgh. What am I to do with you? One day, it’s all sunny walks and tail wags in Vizsla Valley, and the next, it’s panting through some kerfuffle that makes those chewed-up, no-good slippers look like relics of the halcyon days. Take the day of the Great Gravy Geyser, for example—the day my courageous constitution was put to the ultimate test.

It began like any other day in our secret town, where every lamppost was a beacon of gossip and every hydrant a watering hole for the locals. I’d bade farewell to my Jamie with a lick and a promise to be a good boy, then squeezed through the enchanted dog flap leading straight to canine paradise. Pawsburgh beckoned with its Emerald Eskimo Estuary breezes and the faint whiff of pancakes from Corgi’s Crepes that teased one’s nostrils like forbidden cologne.

Duke, that strapping Golden Retriever with a bark that could guide ships home, met me with an enthusiasm that would have warranted two paragraphs in a lesser dog’s memoir. “Wyatt!” he boomed with a pawed slap on my shoulder, “Did you hear about Ruby Rottweiler Ridge?”

I tilted my head. “I’ve been mostly concerned with the location of my beloved squeaky chicken. What about the Ridge?”

“A gravy geyser, my daring friend! They’ve struck brown gold!” Duke woofed with vigor, leading me to the ridge faster than you can say ‘ruff’.

Ruby Rottweiler Ridge was, as you might expect, a sight that day—gobs of gravy were shooting skyward like some sort of culinary Old Faithful, except no one had any intention of putting their paw into that boiling hot mess. Commotion tickled the air, and the town’s denizens had gathered, yipping and yapping with a mixture of panic and delight.

“An all-you-can-eat fountain!” howled a Pomeranian, salivating over the promise of eternal sustenance.

But here’s what the masses hadn’t considered—the Great Gravy Geyser was less benevolent fountain and more an impending gravy apocalypse. Visions of Pawsburgh drowning in meat drippings swamped my beagle brain. Whiskers the Siamese cat, who generally reserved her panic for closed doors and empty food bowls, perched atop The Snooty Snout Boutique, her eyes wide with fear—or was that thrill? I never can tell with cats.

“Okay, team,” I barked, my sense of duty overriding the seductive scent of roast chicken wafting from Canine Kabobs. “This gravy train stops now.”

Duke returned from a reconnaissance mission near the geyser, his fur slick with savory sauce. “It’s getting worse. If we don’t plug it, the Estuary will turn into a beefy bath, and The Woofy Bakery will be battered in brown sauce!”

“Unspeakable,” I quipped grimly.

Our plan was simple: use all available rubber chickens to cork the gushing geyser. I rallied the pack with a rallying cry that would’ve stirred even the laziest of bulldogs from his patch of sun. Together, we launched well-loved toys skyward, catching the gravy mid-spurt and preventing, quite heroically, the catastrophic drowning of our darling Pawsburgh.

As the gravy began to recede, we stood—brave, hungry, and triumphant. Duke shook the glop from his once-golden coat, while Whiskers delicately pawed the slivers of potato off her pristine fur.

And when our owners came home, none were the wiser. My Jamie spent the evening bemused by the inexplicable loss of rubber poultry and the mysterious speck of gravy on my brow. I dozed off in that sun-soaked patch, dreaming of the next adventure in the inexplicable world of Pawsburgh—hoping, just hoping, that it would involve less gravy and more glory.

The End.

Share This Story: