Hey Mom,

Nailed my Pawsburgh Pavilion audition with some freestyle rap; got a standing O on all fours! Opal might make me a star yet. Passed on pie but couldn’t resist chicken from Pom’s. Think I’m inching closer to being the ‘Brutus the Cutest’ Earl of Underfoot on stage.

Sweet dreams from your little Bruty Brut 🐾✨

Brutus

As I, Brutus, Earl of Underfoot, saunter down the cobbled laneways of Pawsburgh with my royal stature and fur kissed by the wisdom of time, I can’t help but revel in the town’s mystical aura. The scent of freshly-baked biscuits from Barker’s Bakery tickles my discerning snout and distracts me momentarily from my mission – today is the auditions at the Pawsburgh Performing Arts Pavilion, an illustrious school where the pet elite finesse their dramatic flair.

“Brutus, my liege, break a leg!” meows Whiskers from atop a sun-kissed windowsill, her Siamese tail conducting the morning breeze like a symphony.

“My dear Whiskers, I plan on keeping all my diminutive limbs intact, thank you,” I retort, the corners of my mouth inching into a noble smile.

Approaching the Pavilion, I find the hall abuzz with a cacophony of excited barks and howls. My fellow canine companions, an ensemble of mutts and pedigrees, are warming up their vocal cords for ‘Paws High,’ the bark-along Bonanza that’s the school’s answer to ‘High School Musical’.

There’s Fido, gallant and spotted, drumming on his fire-hydrant drum set. He pauses and gives me an encouraging bark. “I’ve got a special solo for you in our number, Brutus – a rap segment. Think you can handle it?”

“Handle it? My friend, I shall positively own it,” I assure him, though inside, my little Chihuahua heart skitters like a pup on linoleum.

Then I see her: Opal Pomeranian, drama coach extraordinaire, her fur puffed to perfection. She ushers me to the stage, where a disco ball throws kaleidoscopic patterns across my path.

“Brutus, let’s hear you freestyle to the beat,” Opal prompts, pushing her sparkly glasses up her snout.

I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and I begin, the portraits of Pawsburgh’s most illustrious alumni looking down upon me from their gilded frames. My voice weaves through the air like an agile pup through agility poles, my lyrics about our beloved town and the postal chariots that dare invade our peace. The audience howls and claps—a standing ovation on four legs!

Post-audition, the cast scampers down to Pom’s Pies for a celebratory feast. I gracefully decline a slice of rabbit and rhubarb. “A delicate constitution,” I explain, prompting sympathetic nods.

“How ’bout a specialty chicken pie then, Earl?” the pie-maker offers, knowing my predilection for the roasted poultry.

“You, sir, are an artiste,” I tell him, my tail wagging approval.

As the moon casts its glow over Harrier Harbor, I find myself alongside my trusty hedgehog plushie on a bench in Jade Jack Russell Junction, reflecting on the audition.

“Squeaky,” I whisper, deeming the toy worthy of a name at last, “today was a remarkable day. And yet, it seems like just the overture.”

The wind carries the excitement of potential adventures, and the soft barks of my fellow performers echo through the night. Pawsburgh, with its enchanting corners like The Snooty Snout Boutique and Canine Couture Clothing where one could easily mistake a fur coat for a local patron, beckons more stories to be told.

As the velvet drapes of sleepiness drape over my eyes, I think of tomorrow. I’ll share my escapade with mom first thing in the morning—as I always do—right before the reality of daytime duty calls me back to protect my realm from those dastardly mail carriers. But for now, I’m just Brutus, the rap-slinging, drama-bringing Earl of Underfoot, dreaming of Pawsburgh’s stage under a canopy of stars.

The End.