Hey Dad,

Had a doggone wild day in Pawsburg, thinkin’ deep while the ground shook like a leaf in a hurricane. Kept cool amid the chaos, sniffed out safe spots, and ended up a hero with a rawhide trophy. Pawsburgh’s resilience is unmatched. Gonna chew on today’s adventures for a while.

Catch ya on the flip side,
Billy Bob 🐾

In a world not too dissimilar from our own—but on a profoundly more dog-oriented axis—I, Billy Bob, had appointed myself the unofficial philosopher of Pawsburg. You could say that given my mix of Cairn cunning and Yorkshire contemplation, I was predisposed to meditate on the profound and commonsensical; to combine the two was my specialty.

One day, which had started more or less like every other—with the triumphant rising over the horizon of a giant, uncontested ball of gas (others call it the sun)—I knew instinctively that something was going to happen. The air smelled different, not unlike the way humans smell when they’re going to the vet, but won’t admit it. As I sauntered through Setter Shore, something was off: The birds sang off-key, and the usual hum of canine joviality had ebbed.

Blue Basenji Bay did not fare any better. The usually gentle waves slammed against the shore with a certain insolence that I found particularly unsettling. Knotting my brows (a tricky gesture given my fur), I decided to cut through Weimaraner Woods, an invariably calm place where I often sought solace in Squirrel-Chase meditation. But today, the trees whispered nervous anecdotes of their own.

A flutter of panic began to ripple as the ground beneath us trembled. Pawsburgh was no stranger to the occasional shake—it shook daily with the laughter and frolics of joyous dogs—but this was different. This had an undertone of disaster.

The gathered four-legged citizens barked in alarm. I could make out the words of Duchess, the poodle matriarch of Dog’s Delicacies, somewhere amidst the commotion.

“There’s an earthquake! Every dog for themself!”

Of course, Duchess would say that, considering she had a particular fondness for drama.

I decided to seek refuge in the Barking Boutique, whose sturdy shelves of tasteful collars and leashes seemed like an oasis of calm. Gazing out the storefront glass with my paws perfectly planted amidst the canine couture, I saw a chaotic waltz of desperate dogs.

Yet, here I was, cool as a cucumber sandwich on a hot day, not because I was braver or smarter than the others—I simply knew panic was for those with less interesting things to think about. However, the shaking continued, escalating to an outright foxtrot of geological tantrums.

What does one do in the midst of an earthquake? Most dogs might turn tail and run, but I remembered something the humans seem to value in times of calamity: remaining calm and looking for exits. Or in my case, sniffing them out.

Eventually, the tremors stopped as abruptly as they had begun, leaving behind a trail of racked nerves and scattered dog bowls. I emerged from my refuge amidst the debris, eager to share my profound observations with anyone who’d listen, which, as it so often turned out, was everyone.

Now, with all the misplaced energy chasing its tail around town, the opening of Poodle’s Pasta that evening became a celebration of resilience. Duchess, brimming with newfound respect for me, deigned to share her table and a maple syrup-covered pork steak—though I had to admit, after a day like today, even dry dog food would have been a banquet fit for an earthquake-surviving hero.

Once more, the scales of normalcy tipped back in favor of our four-legged populace. As I lay in my plush bed that night, with an audacious chunk of rawhide stick poking out of the side of my mouth, I contemplated the day’s events.

Disaster had struck, and like the skeptical eyebrow of a disbelieving Bassett, Pawsburg had raised itself against the odds and pranced on. And I, Billy Bob, had proven myself more than just a talker of walks, but a walker of talks. Quite literally today, if I may say.

The End.