Hey Mom,

Just a quick pupdate – today I was Shadow, the pint-sized adventurer of Pawsburgh! Trotted through Pinscher Plaza, flirted with Biscuit at the pet pharmacy (got my usual, of course), and teamed up with Beethoven to wrangle rumor-milled sheep at Hound’s Hotdogs. Ended the day triumphantly at Dog’s Delicacies. You might think I dreamt it all, but in Pawsburgh, my tales wag as much as my tail. Night!

– Tadow Butt

Ah, Pawsburgh, a tail-wagging utopia, where the sun doth gleam with a luster known only to the likes of our four-legged brethren. ‘Twas in this dogdom, known only to such as we who wag and woof, that I, Shadow, the Chihuahua of not insignificant renown, awoke to find myself on the commencement of a day fraught with adventure and tinged with the dust of old bones and the gleam of worn leather.

So it came to pass in Pawsburgh, where the saloons of yore found new life as havens for the hungry hound, that I had a mind to trot through Pinscher Plaza, a place where the wild west winds blew just rightly for a dog of spirits such as mine.

I passed by Beagle Bagels, where the scent of fresh dough and sesame seeds tantalized even the most discerning of canine nostrils. But no, it was not the sustenance I sought this morn, for my travels had a grander destination – Vizsla Valley, the very place where legends were carved from the dry earth and whistling grasses, as tall tales and true.

Upon my route, a stop at The Pawsome Pet Pharmacy was requisite, for one must never venture into the valley without a token for good health, for though my size be modest, my ambitions were grand, and ambitions require the sturdiest of conditions.

There, behind the counter, stood a sight that could steal a gasp from even the most stoic of St. Bernards – the graceful Biscuit, a Spaniel of such beauty and grace, one could hardly believe she deigned to spend her days amidst potions and flea prevention. “Shadow, the usual?” said she, her words as soothing as a belly rub.

Soon, with the assurance of vitality tucked beneath my collar, I took to the path leading to Pyrenean Peak. ‘Twas not a peak of true mountains, but for a dog of my altitude, it served the same. The sun scorched, the road bit, and my paws felt every pebble upon that baked and dusty trail.

As the peak approached, the baritone caterwauling of ol’ Beethoven bellowed across the valley, greeting any brave traveler with the lore of the land. My friend, Beethoven – a looper of such enthusiasm he could make the most placid puddle pulse – eyed me with a knowing gleam. “Ready for the round-up, Shadow?” his bark robust as the oak that graced Madame Mia’s yard.

Together, we rode – well, metaphorically, as we had no horses nor need for them. The challenge was to herd the rumor-milled sheep at Hound’s Hotdogs. ‘Tis a place known for more hopping than the hottest of days could account for and more frolic than a festival of fleas.

Upon our arrival, dusk had laid its gentle hand upon the town. The scent of smoldering hotdogs filled the air as we approached Dog’s Delicacies to reward ourselves with victory chews, flavored with triumph and tinted with the essence of dust and glory.

On the morrow, my human would see the sparkle in my gaze, the swagger in my step, and assume naught but dreams had filled my slumbering. Little might she know that it was not slumber but an escapade, a tale that now lives in the hallowed halls of Pawsburgh’s history – for tales these were, and tales they shall remain.

In Pawsburgh I shuffle and shake-off, in Pawsburgh, I reign with a bark.

The End.

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