Hey Mom,

Heroic duties called last night in Pawsburgh—we tangoed with toy soldiers, dodged a delinquent Mouse King, and saved the day with my trusty blue frisbee. I’ve been knighted by a nutcracker, and it turns out my tail wags come with a side of valor. Who knew? Bark to you soon about the rest!

Knightly nuzzles,
Riley 🐾✨

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It’s been one of those illustrious Pawsburgh nights, the kind that twinkle with mischief and howl with adventure. It’s me, Riley, the Red Merle Mini Aussie with fur the envy of a sunset’s palette, and a propensity for capers that rivals my fidelity.

I remember it as if it were yesterday because, well, it was yesterday. The night had draped itself over the human’s world, which naturally meant it was time for us canines to slip into our own clandestine utopia—Pawsburgh.

There’s this thing about Akita Alley on a crisp winter’s eve; it feels like stepping into a snow globe, only with less of the kitsch and more of the enchantment. The cobblestone pathway sparkled beneath the paws of my compatriots and, as I trotted along, I passed by the warm glow of Labrador Lunch with nary a glance. The decadent scent of oven-roasted chicken lingered in the air, coaxing a trick or two from my willing repertoire, but I had bigger fish to fetch—or rather, a blue frisbee.

I couldn’t shake the memory of last year’s Christmas—not since the legendary toy story Baxter regaled us with in a sunny spot on Garnet Greyhound Grove. “Never underestimate the power of a child’s belief,” he had said, “or the magic of Christmas Eve.” Being at once energetic and a waggish skeptic, I filed it away under ‘Beagle’s Blarney’ until tonight.

The park over the hill, strewn with yew and birch, was my Valhalla. And there it was, the frisbee—a steadfast squire in our daily quests for jubilation—wedged under the paw of a rather elaborate nutcracker toy. A wistful girl had left it behind, her imagination imbuing it with a princely valor. And yes, naturally, one cannot simply retrieve a treasured frisbee without indulging in the ambiance.

Now, in my experience, toys don’t typically move. Consider my surprise when, on this hallowed eve, the nutcracker sprang to life, stretching his wooden limbs with the elegance of a ballet dancer freed from a curse. It was certainly enough to make me recoil, though less than the horror of a rogue lemon.

“Pawsburgh welcomes you, Prince,” I said, maintaining that collected Aussie exterior, while internally computing the absurdity.

With a bow that seemed painted by moonlight, Prince Nutcracker announced, “I have been watching over Pawsburgh, waiting for a pup with the heart of a lion and the soul of a sprite.”

“Pixie’s your girl for sprites,” I corrected, but he continued his spiel about a villainous Mouse King endangering both our realms. The audacity, really—on Christmas Eve of all nights!

“I draft you into service, Knight Riley. We must journey to Pyrenean Peak!”

Before I could remind him that my questing hours were strictly nine to five, we were joined by Baxter and Pixie, both looking expectant, both donning a sort of anticipation you could chew on. Loyalty’s the name of the game, and so, after a shared nod, off we went.

The escapade that followed would make the most decorated Pawsburgh tales wilt. We twirled through skirmishes, bantered with the bark of ages, and found ourselves cornered at the peak by His Royal Rodentness. Just as things were looking particularly grim, I nudged my noble blue disc into the snowy fray. With physics befitting a Douglas Adams’ footnote, it glanced off the Mouse King’s crown, toppling him into a snowdrift, from which he scrambled away, sans dignity.

It was hard to tell who was more surprised—me, the enchanted prince, or my motley crew of mates.

The sun peeked over the horizon, as if keen on the gossip, and our princely comrade cast one last smile before stiffening back into inanimate decorum. As I returned to my earthly abode with the frisbee secured, I could already hear my human wondering aloud about Riley’s Christmas miracle.

Imagine that, me, Riley—a knight, a hero, a frisbee-chaser extraordinaire. And not a citrus fruit in sight. Yes, Pawsburgh, you’ve really outdone yourself this time.

The End.

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