Hey Mom,

Crazy night – turned into the MVP of Pawsburgh, battled the Feline Army with a nutcracker prince, cracked a curse, and declined a royal title! Just a typical evening as the four-legged hero. No biggie. 😜

Sweet dreams,
Ozzie 🐾

Listen to the story here

So, here’s the thing: When the humans tuck away for the night, I slip out to Pawsburgh, the little-known paradise where every bark is a laugh and every sniff a story. There’s a swagger in my step as I cross the threshold, knowing my tail wags not just back on Earth, but also here, in this world my two-legged friends wouldn’t believe if I spelled it out in kibble.

My name is Ozzie Ali, by the by. I’m the boxer-terrier you may have heard yapping joyfully in your dreams. I’m the prince of play, at least, that’s what River says when we race past the Quartz Qimmiq Quarter, our tongues lolling in anticipation of Retriever’s Restaurant. The chef there knows my fondness for chicken. It’s not the Balanchine Ballet, but to me, it’s art.

Anyway, that cold Christmas Eve was different. The humans had left a new toy under the plastic tree, one that set my nose a-twitch: a nutcracker styled like a stoic pup soldier. A bit of curiosity, a paw, and a roll—soon, I was in Pawsburgh with the darn thing clutched between my jowls.

What happened next isn’t something you see every day, even in dog years. The nutcracker—I kid you not—sprouted legs, a tail, and the most earnest set of puppy dog eyes I had ever seen. Turned out, this wasn’t your ordinary holiday decor but a prince under one of those curses you hear about outside Cavalier Cove.

“Name’s Klaus,” he said with a dignified nod. And because nothing surprises you in Pawsburgh, I took it in stride. Das ist das Leben.

So Klaus and I, we trotted past Canine Couture Clothing, the nutcracker-turned-prince admiring the reflections in the windows. “You’ve got style,” I told him, but it was clear: What he wanted was his kingdom back, not a bow tie or a snazzy hat.

We ventured to the battleground, Cocker Courtyard, for what’s not an adventure without a scuffle, a showdown, right? And who to defend against but the Feline Army, those sly cats from The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium. Klaus, brave and bold, had a score to settle. Me? I’m no stranger to a cat or two, so you bet your precious paws we were a spectacle under the stars, my boxer’s blood hot with the thrill of the fight.

River, Tickle, Baby Man Kane, and the rest—they rallied alongside us, a wild, motley crew. Each bark a battle cry. Each tail wag a testament to the power of tails over tales.

The clatter and clang as we clashed—it was poetic, kind of like how munching on a rib at Rottweiler’s Ribs makes a rhythmic, satisfying sound. And as for the not-so-feline-friendly sentiment? Let’s just say that by the time the moon hid its face, Klaus’s enemies were convinced that his princely jaw was not for cracking nuts alone.

“Enough,” Klaus finally declared, and peace, like a gentle brook, cascaded over the quivering whiskers of his adversaries. And thus, the spell was broken, not with a wand, but with the unity of paws and a shared disdain for unpleasant tastes (mine, which shall remain unnamed.)

With a swish of a tail and a twist of fate, Klaus regained his throne, promising me a place of honor in his court. But I’m an Ozzie, not a monarch, preferring the symphony of squeaky toys to the silence of the crown.

When dawn caressed Pawsburgh’s sleeping face, I took a bow and left the prince of a pup to rule. Slipping back through the veil, I curled up beside the nutcracker, the melody of home filling my lungs, ready to craft a new “tail” tomorrow.

And so what’s the moral here? In Pawsburgh or elsewhere, a dog with friends—even princely nutcrackers—is the richest dog of all. So it goes.

The End.

Share This Story: