Hey Mom,

Just rocked Pawsburgh with my band ‘The Howling Hounds’—I’m like the Lassie of rock stars! 🎤🐾 Barkley’s dramatic vibes, Whisker’s dance moves, and my soulful crooning had tails wagging harder than a tennis ball launcher! The crowd went wild, even with the peanut butter cookie scent distraction. #LivingTheDream. Love you and catch you on the flip side!

Hugs and tail wags,
Fri-Fri 🐶💕✨

Beneath the silver spill of moonlight, Pawsburgh came alive with the muted sounds of clandestine escapades, a symphony composed entirely of paws against cobblestone and the excited panting of its nocturnal denizens. I was there too—Friday, the black-and-white bundle of frippery with a heart as vast as the weekend looming on the horizon.

“It’s three-quarter time tonight, Friday,” Barkley the Beagle had said, with a tongue dripping from both sides of his mouth—not from exhaustion, mind you, but from sheer exhilaration. He had always had a flair for the dramatic.

“The stage is set, then?” I had asked, mask-like patches accentuating my raised brow.

“As never before,” promised Whiskers the Whippet, her sleek form cutting through the night as we three musketeers of melody and mirth made our way to Pawsburgh Academy.

But let’s not dawdle on introductions. Like any good story, the juiciness is in the doing, not the preamble.

Tonight was the grand debut of the Howling Hounds, our band that had sprung from the seeds of boredom and an inexplicable itch for creative expression. We had schemed, practiced harmonizing our barks into something resembling music, and choreographed tail wags in rhythm to melodies known only to those adventurous enough to attempt song without opposable thumbs.

As we approached Sapphire Schnauzer Street, I must admit, my heart skipped a beat. Outside Pawsburgh Academy, a Stradivarius sign of a venue for us, the air hung heavy with anticipation—or perhaps that was just the scent wafting from Pooch’s Pub down the block; they did make a mean steak tartare that could derail the attention of even the most focused canine.

Stepping into the spotlight, I let my cobalt gaze sweep across the adoring crowd. Dear reader, if my tail could have wagged its way into a standing ovation, it would have.

I won’t lie; there was a tingle in my paws before the first ball-pit ball thudded onto the stage, setting the rhythm for our opening number—a ditty titled “Paws Up,” composed during one of my more inspired frolics through Clover Meadows. Barkley hit the notes with gusto, while Whiskers added an ambitious series of leaps and twirls that bordered on interpretative dance.

Meanwhile, I captivated with a stage presence that I suppose could be likened to the lovechild of Lassie and a black and white television starlet from the ’50s—if such a comparison doesn’t strain credulity.

“There’s a symphony in every play, a ballad in every chase,” I crooned, “Life’s a constant overture, when you’re living at a paws’s race.”

Suffice it to say, the audience was enraptured, their barks and yips an affirmation of our shared canine joys and tribulations.

One thing I did not anticipate was the knockout punch of peanut butter cookie bouquet candles being lit as part of the ambiance—one whiff, and I might have forgotten the words to my solo. Fortunately, I was a professional, and not even my favorite aromatic delight could sway me from the task at paw.

As the show reached its crescendo, and our final number, “The Tail Wag Waltz,” drifted to a close, there was a silence—a momentary lull that seemed to stretch to eternity. And then the applause, a cacophony of barks, howls, and ruffs that might have been discerned as noise by an untrained human ear. But to us, it was the music of success, of friendship, of shared peanut butter dreams.

Pawsburgh Academy had been our stage, and we—animated by the spirited buzz of a well-played tennis ball—had become more than just pets. We were the Howling Hounds, the beating heart of Pawsburgh’s grand nocturnal melody. And as I, Friday, took my bow, with Barkley and Whiskers by my side, I knew in every black and white strand of my fur that this tale—a Vignette in the canvas of Pawsburgh—was merely the beginning.

The End.