Hey, just wanted to share that today, I was the unofficial mayor of Pawsburgh, leading the snowy escapades with the legendary Frosty and my bud Boo. Found joy in each paw print, spun tales that would make Twain smile, and feasted like a king before returning to the human den, rich in adventures and bellyful of stories to nuzzle by. Pawsburgh is not just a place, it’s our little slice of tail-waggin’ heaven. 🐾 – Ozzy the Pug Mayor

Listen to the story here

In the heartwink ‘fore sunrise, ‘neath a roof that sheltered my dreams snug as a flea on a hound’s back, I, Ozzy of the glossy black, roused to a world bright as a new shiny bowl brimmin’ with victuals. I slipped out of the embrace of my cushioned bed, away from the slumberin’ humans who knew not of Pawsburgh, the place where us canine folk convene beyond the threshold of their imaginin’s.

“Time to skedaddle,” I said to myself, the words hangin’ in the air like the scent of bacon on a Sunday morn. I knew what awaited me — a frosty wonderland of adventure and the comradery of paws and snouts. Frosty, the Snowdog of legend, had been waggin’ up the streets with his tail smooth as the tail of a comet, spillin’ joy ‘cross our magical town like gravy on taters.

‘Twas no day for layin’ ’bout! At Setter Shore, ice crinkled underpaw, sparklin’ like the twinkle in a pup’s eyes ‘fore a fetchin’ game. I hopped along, my breath puffin’ out smoky signals of my coming.

Now, what’s a pug to do at a frosted shore but look for his cohort in canine capers? Boo, the sharpest Beagle this side of Pomeranian Park, soon appeared, his holler warmin’ the frosty air like hot cider to the tongue.

“A day for a snowdog, ain’t it, Ozzy?” Boo yodeled, his beagle bay a melody playin’ well with the whisperin’ wind.

“Sure as a squirrel’s got a bushy tail, it is,” I answered, my words hangin’ like frost on a whisker.

We ambled down yonder to Pinscher Plaza, where Frosty the Snowdog hisself, tall as two dogs on each other’s shoulders, chuckled deep as hounds do in their dreams, eyes twinklin’ in jest.

“Follow me, jolly compadres,” Frosty beckoned, and like pups to a puddle, we did, through the powder so white it would put the cotton in the medicine bottle to shame.

We slid and cavorted, tracin’ paths in the snow like letters in a love note. We told tales — tall ones, mind you — that would make old Twain himself raise an eyebrow and chuckle. A snowdog, you see, has a way of meltin’ the serious out a body, turnin’ it to ripples of laughter.

But come midday, a pug’s belly knows its own mind, and mine was dictatin’ the need for sustenance with the urgency of a thunderclap. So I excused myself from Frosty’s merry band and tottered on over to Sniffer’s Sandwiches – an eatery no one with an appetite could rightly pass by.

“A heapin’ helpin’ of your finest, kind sir,” I beseeched, the smell of the bread and meats nearly sendin’ me to a faint.

Refreshed by my feast, I joined the mug-up at the Howling Husky Hardware Store, where tales spun like a top and camaraderie was as warm as the wool on a sheep’s back.

Yet, as the sun dipped low like a farewell nod, my thoughts turned to the warm home whence I came. A pug’s heart, though fond of frolic, never strays far from the hearth it holds dear.

Back in the loving cradle of my human’s home, I settled, a dog content, my belly as full as the moon on a winter’s night. My coat glistened like the starry sky in Frosty’s wake, but my eyes, I dare say, held even more shine.

For Pawsburgh is more than a place. It’s a whisper of the joy dogs know — a secret we keep and an adventure we live. And as my humans returned home, I shared it all with a nuzzle, a tail wag, and a knowing look that spelled out chapters of glee in the book of dogish happiness. “A day?” I sighed. “Why, it was grander than a day, it was Pawsburgh.”

The End.