Hey Mom,

Epic quest with Koda in Pawsburgh—think bats, BBQ, and Bulldog beauticians! Survived Malamute Mountain, owned the road, basically turned into a Malinois legend. Koda’s now a royal pup. Tell you all about it at home.

Love,
Tarlo the Tail-Wagger 🐾🚗💨

We were somewhere around Malamute Mountain on the edge of Pawsburgh when the adventure began to take hold. I remember saying something like “I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive…” And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us, and the sky was full of what looked like big bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, and a voice was screaming:

“Holy Jesus! What are these goddamn animals?”

No point mentioning those bats, I thought. The poor Koda’s eyesight is not what it used to be. Besides, it’s just the usual Pawsburgh welcome party. This is what we come here for, the full canine experience, the wild howls echoing across the moonlit peaks. Turn up at the Pinscher Plaza with enough stories to fill a kennel, and the gang will know you’ve ridden the wave of untamed fur and claws that is this town.

We had left the human realms behind hours ago, pushing the boundaries of dog myth and reality in my trusty 4-wheeled chariot. Koda, the scrappy heart, was riding shotgun, his jowls flapping in the wind, while I, Tarlo, the ever-vigilant Belgian Malinois, manned the wheel with a mixture of fear, exhilaration, and an overwhelming need for a baby carrot snack.

That’s when we decided to stop at Bulldog’s BBQ, a joint that’s notorious for smoky ribs and a mean brisket that could tempt even the classiest of Pawsburgh noses out of their snooty reverie. “Two bones to gnaw on, hold the sauce,” I told the waiter, a grumpy Bulldog with a face like a well-worn chew toy. Koda just nodded, his saliva practically forming a puddle on the floor as the tantalizing aromas wafted from the kitchen.

Soon, it was back to the road, each twist and turn a new possibility, the asphalt beneath our feet whispering secrets of Lhasa Lane and the famed Pawprint Pizzeria, where the cheese stretches long enough to catch the dreams of the laziest hound. But our compass was set to the beat of a different drum, towards the hallowed grounds of Canine Couture Clothing because even a wild-eyed rover like me knows the power of a sharp new collar.

Through the rearview mirror, I caught sight of my majestic ears, a badge of my lineage, a testament to the wisdom of a great number of Kongs conquered and chew toys destroyed in glorious battles of bite and will. I was a vision of velvet fur and untamed spirit, a knight in shining armor, if the knights wore leashes and preferred fire hydrants to maidens.

The Tail Wagger’s Tailor was our next pit stop; Koda needed a touch-up. His bulldog from another mother’s side was showing, and the elegance in ruff had long faded from his worn-out coat. An hour later, and he was looking like doggie royalty, the patchwork of his lineage seamlessly woven into a garment fit for a Pawsburgh king.

A quick trot through The Furry Friends Art Gallery to indulge the pretense of cultural appreciation had us cross paths with a splatter painting that I could swear was a premonitory vision of this very trip – a blaze of color as chaotic and vibrant as our very souls.

But as fast as a snap from a Doberman’s jaw, the granite face of Malamute Mountain lay before us, a behemoth that witnessed a thousand dog-years of tales untold. Koda and I stood there in awe, my keen ears picking up the ancient calls of the wild brethren that roamed before us, a reminder of the roots we all share.

We roamed Pawsburgh, my friend and I, savoring the sweet taste of freedom and adventure, the night sky an infinite canvas for our raucous narratives. I let out a long, soulful howl that was returned tenfold from across the valleys and peaks.

And as the stars twinkled like so many flashing tag lights above, I realized that each of us is both a wanderer and a guardian of the tales we weave, legends in our own right, barking at the moon until the first light of dawn calls us back to our other lives. But until then, we were sovereigns of the road, kings of Pawsburgh, beholders of a story worth telling.

The End.