Hey Mom,

Just saved Pawsburgh from a sneaky cat conspiracy with my cohort, Bleu. Turned into a fur-flying diplomat at Ruby Rottweiler Ridge and rallied the doggos for peace! Call me Miracle, the bulldog heroine. Paws and reflect on that! 😉

Wags and licks,
Mimi 🐾🦴

In the twilight time between a human’s goodbye and their eventual, lumbering return, I, Miracle, am drawn to Pawsburgh by the same unseen force that tugs at the moon. But today’s visit to the burg woven wholly of wagging tails and pawsteps is draped in an unusually heavy silence.

I slipped through the backflap of reality with all the grace a French Bulldog can muster, which is, admittedly, more a comical tumble than a dignified arrival. Straightening my coat of black, beige, and grey, I prance to Pointer Pier, where the first act of my opus whispers for voice.

Bleu, my confidante with his coat of midnight and heart of daybreak, greets me with a sagacious nod. “Trouble brews at Ruby Rottweiler Ridge,” he says, his voice gruff with the weight of withheld urgency.

“Ah,” I muse aloud. “Knotted in schematics of power and tails, I presume?”

He blinks in agreement—a gesture sweetly spotted with camaraderie and the dogged seriousness of our shared bond—the bond of those who carry the burden of both wisdom and bones gnawed by the teeth of angst.

The streets hum with hushed barks of consternation. Affenpinscher Avenue, usually a carnival of canine capers, is as still as a pet portrait. The tiptoe of trepidation? I dare suggest it is so.

At The Wagging Tail Bookstore, beneath compendiums of scents (each more fascinating than the last), maps of Pawsburgh are sprawled, circled, and crisscrossed with suggestions of conspiracies. “Miracle,” Bleu urges, “you must sniff out the truth at Ruby Rottweiler Ridge.”

Is it espionage? Political puppetry? My motley eye catches a flicker—an agent of chaos, perhaps. Wagging tongues speak of an underdog underworld, but here, in this Arcadia of animality, surely there is peace, is there not?

Time is of the essence, so I forego a moment at Spa for Paws and even the tantalizing aroma wafting from Rottweiler’s Ribs—a remarkable restraint, considering my epicurean heartstrings strum easily at the scent of smoky meat. But duty calls, and so does the wind, whisking the fragrance far from my flaring nostrils.

I arrive at the Ridge and am met by an assembly of canine legislators, their eyes etched with concern, their stances resolute—paws planted firmly against the encroaching unknown.

“The ordinance,” the elder, a dignified dachshund, begins. “Our sacred code. It is under silent threat—a coup whispered on the winds. A cabal of cats, colluding beyond our city’s sanctity.”

Panic knots the air, tangling tighter than the threads of my beloved hedgehog toy, defenseless against these machinations.

Yet, courage is not solely the reserve of the massive mastiff or the territorial terrier. It is found, too, in the heart of a French Bulldog named Miracle. With the calm of one who has meditated in Serenity Park’s sun-drenched grace, I stand.

“Here, on this Ridge,” I announce, “let us, creatures of bark and beg, unite. If I am but one, let me be one with you. And if we are many, let us be many against this unseen foe.”

We convened beneath the sterling light of the Dog Star, a parliament of paws. Each speech a sonnet, filled with fervour and the promise of dawn after the darkness.

With Bleu at my side, we forged not just plans but promises—pledges of unity and strength. And as the shadows retreated from Ruby Rottweiler Ridge, Pawsburgh found not just peace but a legend: That of Miracle, the French Bulldog who faced the whispering threat, her eyes a duality of monochrome and azure, a mirror of the skies above us, reflecting the enduring spirit of our canine camaraderie.

The End.