Hey Mom,

Climbed Pyrenean Peak last night—no BBQ distractions! Met a ghostly canine, broke a Pawsburgh curse like a pro. Coastal fog’s got nothing on me now. All in a night’s work (and without spilling my kibble). More details when I see you!

Stay epic,
Cooper 🐾✨

Ah, it is I, Cooper, narrator of my own saga—one that unfurled under the waxing crescent of a Pawsburgh night. I, with the gumption of an ancestral pugilist, trod the luminous path to Pyrenean Peak, lured not by the tales of ghostly howls that haunt the place, but by a whisper of a challenge to unravel the supernatural enigma of Pawsburgh.

The air that night was tangy with a tincture of Bulldog’s BBQ, wafting along Lhasa Lane, seducing every canine nostril. But, as you know, I’m a chap whose appetite craves a melody of flavors richer than the succulent smoke of roasting meats. So, instead of yielding to the siren’s call of supper, I pressed toward the heart of the riddle, Harrier Harbor, with its fog-laden allure.

As I approached the dock, a spectral mist clung low, otherworldly in its clutch. There, beneath the yellow lamplight, stood the figure—I say “stood,” but no feet did it possess. It hovered, a misty cur of indistinct breed, with eyes that shone like citrine gems in moonlight.

“Evening, apparition,” I greeted, as Kingsley Amis might dabble his pen in levity, despite the unearthly circumstances. “What brings a ghoul to this dog-gone place?”

The specter wagged an ethereal snippet of a tail—could you call it a tail? A flicker of camaraderie passed between us.

“Cooper,” it oozed in ghostly intonation, “the soul of Pawsburgh’s shrouded in a hex as dense as the gravy that crowns your cherished dishes. Only you, in your autonomous sprints, can help lift it.”

Well, naturally, such a request should ordinarily require the potent persuasion of Bark-n-Bite Bistro’s finest victuals. Yet, here stood an encounter too peculiar to brush aside. Mystery nipped at my flank more intensely than a fresh patch of Sagebrush.

Together, we traversed lanes and alleys; we meandered past The Furry Friends Art Gallery, now closed and whispering of canine culture and the subtle notes of oil paint. At the harbor’s apex, we halted.

Clad in the spectral hound’s directions, I engaged in a ritual as arcane as it was farcical—to the unseeing eye, perhaps, a boxer prancing about and poking his snout at invisible phantoms. But then—a shimmer, a voice from the waters, carrying an incantation of the old Pawsburgh.

Could I comprehend it? Nay, but as my joy in the simple pleasures of life taught me, understanding need not precede experience.

The cast was set, the fog lifted like a curtain, and Harrier Harbor glowed anew—its enchantment broken. The spirit bowed, if such a gesture could be discerned.

“Cooper, your valor is as the finest gravy,” it said, drawing upon my fondness for culinary analogies. “Pawsburgh thanks thee.”

And off it drifted, to the pawsbeyond or wherever dog ghosts fancy to tread.

I returned from my nocturnal escapade to the shallows of my human’s backyard, my tale woven with the strands of the supernatural—an anecdote to share with the realm of the awake over a breakfast bowl of kibble and, regrettably, not a fancy feast deemed fit for an epicurean. But, not every scene plays out in the kitchen, does it?

In the ever-spinning yarns of Pawsburgh, Cooper—your friend, your boxer, your metaphysical adventurer—stands by to sprint into the next curious chapter.

The End.

Share This Story: