Hey, just checked in from another tail-waggin’ time-travel jaunt! I chased smells through the Terrier Time Tunnel, sidestepped celery in ol’ London, and ended up a lost pup in Pawsburgh. But fear not, my furry saga continues. Now, back to my sun spot and a chicken feast! Time-travel hugs, Marley 🐾🕰️🍗

As I lay there, sunning myself in the bay window, musing on the peculiarities of human kind, a particular scent teased my nostrils. It beckoned me beyond my cushioned perch. I knew then that I, Marley, was about to embark upon an escapade that would rival the sagas sung at Wagging Whisk. With a determined snort, I leapt from my sunny haven, my adventure-hung sails at full mast, for I was Marley, the French Bulldog, time-traveling dog extraordinaire.

Now, to the untrained eye, Pawsburgh might seem but an ordinary place, a resplendent refuge where dogs relish their rambunctious frolics. To us, it’s a wonderland punctuated by epochs—a fulcrum for four-legged time trotters. Swift as a Beagle’s bark, I set my paws towards Pinscher Plaza, where, tucked away behind The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium, sat the Terrier Time Tunnel—a portal unknown to most, but not to an intrepid soul like mine.

Pushing past the garments that adorned the entrance of Barking Boutique, I stood before the swirling vortex, my heartbeat a fervent drumroll against my ribs. With a bound as mighty as my small frame could muster, I leapt into the eddies of time.

That’s when the world twisted. My surroundings blurred—shadows and light danced like Spaniel Spaghetti in a pot. Then, as sudden as a hound’s abrupt halt at Barking BBQ’s smoky aroma, I landed. Firm beneath my paws was cobblestone; before me, the din of mankind’s fervor. Humans bustled about in fashions quite queer, with bonnets and breeches, and scent… oh, the scent! I was in an era devoid of our delightful culinary establishments, but rife with an arcane allure.

A familiar hum caught my ear. “Ah, so you’ve fancied a jaunt to old London Town, Marley,” spoke Baxter, appearing in a top hat and a rather snug waistcoat, looking very much the Beagle of yesteryear. “Quite the gear, Mister Baxter,” I commented, impressed.

We paraded down the timber-laden streets, and I, a dog much accustomed to leisurely pursuits, found myself amidst a pageant of history. We avoided a gang of street urchins and scuttled past fishmongers. With Baxter as my timely guide, I indulged in the marvels of the past, or at least until the sky hinted at dusk’s arrival.

As we pattered back, through a London fog that curled around our legs like the dread of a pending bath, I confessed my relief at the trip’s end. For all its grandeur, the past held no Chicken Royale—only strange treatises by the human hand, like this ‘celery’ offense they seemed to favor.

I dared not to linger. With another bound, I aimed for the day I came from, one blessed with proper doggy delights. But as the vortex sucked us back through the centuries, it spat us onto Schnauzer Street. Oh, the perplexity! We had moved not in time, but in space, across Pawsburgh!

Baxter chuckled at my dismay, assuring me that such hiccups were all part of the escapade. Indeed, I’d had my fill of time-traveling for the day, for all I hankered after now was my comfy spot and a juicy morsel of chicken, minus the celery, thank you very much.

As the houses of my neighborhood came into sight, their familiar shapes welcomed me home, my tails wagged in the rhythm of contentment. And there, upon my favorite pillow, a bowl brimming with succulent chicken awaited, as though it knew of my return all along.

With the earthly heaven of my bowl before me, I pondered the grand tapestry of my time-hewn travels, knowing that my story in Pawsburgh—and indeed through the past—was but one chapter in the saga of Marley, the Fawn French Bulldog, the time-traveling pet of nobody’s acquaintance but the ethereal mists and the guiding stars above.

The End.