Hey there,

Just saved Pawsburgh from a citrus catastrophe with my trusty squeaky burger – all in a day’s work! Turns out, Whiskers’s nap experiment turned air freshener. Don’t worry, traded heroism for extra creamy peanut butter at the victory feast. 🦴🐾

Catch you on the flip side,
Scruff the Brave

It was on your average, run-of-the-mill Tuesday that I, Scruffy, found myself embarking upon an escapade that was anything but average. I awoke to the promise of boundless exploits as the human—my human—walked out the door. With the click of the lock, I knew it was Pawsburgh time.

You see, Pawsburgh is not your ordinary town. It’s a place bathed in the kind of magic that can make a squeaky rubber hamburger appear gourmet. I’ve never seen a human there. That’s probably for the best; I can’t imagine they’d appreciate Bloodhound Bluffs as we do.

I trotted towards Harrier Harbor, my fur billowing behind me like the velvety train of a royal robe. A fog had settled over the cobbled streets, curling around quaint lampposts that lit up in response. The air smelled of mysteries yet unfurled—a scent almost as tantalizing as peanut butter, but decidedly less edible.

I had an appointment with Marbles at Setter’s Steakhouse. Occasionally, I’ve reflected on the possibility of walking in and ordering a plate of lemons just to watch the staff’s confusion, but… well, you know. My snout is fearfully unwrinkly today, and we’d like to keep it that way, thank you.

“Scruffy!” barked Marbles as he bounded up to me. Marbles was one of those beagles who seem to have been put together by enthusiastic but ultimately very confused people. “Are you ready for the Grand Adventure?”

“Aren’t all our adventures grand?” I quipped, channeling that Douglas Adams fellow—if ever there was a human who could have really grooved this place, it was him. “Or are we talking capital ‘G’, capital ‘A’ Grand Adventure?”

Marbles nodded with a gravity that made his long ears flap. “The Oracle of Doberman Dunes,” he said solemnly. “She’s been restless—whispers of a citrus beast threatening the frolics of our town.”

“Good grief, not citrus!” My aggravated snout twitched at the mere thought. “No dog should be subjected to such monstrosities. Lead on, Marbles.”

But first, brunch, because no intrepid adventurer tackles threats on an empty stomach. At Hound’s Hotdogs, we indulged in treats that put my squeaky hamburger to shame—well, figuratively speaking.

Brunch consumed and bravery solidified, we set off to Doberman Dunes, which were suspiciously dune-less and rather more like a series of portals spiraling up into the unknown. The Oracle—a sleek, salt-and-pepper greyhound with eyes that contained multitudes—awaited at the top.

After the necessary theatrics, she spoke in riddles, as one does when they are a magical entity. “The beast you seek is closer than the nose on your muzzle; it dwells where one’s tail wags with no hustle. What you yearn for in your soul, seek the hamburger that squeaks, for it holds the clue to the citrus beast’s defeat.”

“So, it’s at Whispering Willows Park. Got it,” Marbles concluded with Herculean confidence.

“We might be jumping to conclusions—”

“To the park!” Marbles barged ahead with a hero’s abandon.

As it turned out, Marbles was right. Whispering Willows Park shone golden in the sunlight as if anointing our arrival. My cherished hamburger toy lay precisely where I left it—now fizzing with an arcane force.

We approached cautiously. I nosed the hamburger, and it squeaked a note that shattered the magic’s hold. A portal opened, and from it emerged not a basilisk or a griffin, but Whiskers, looking particularly disheveled.

“Oh dear,” Whiskers mewed, “did I do that? I was testing a new nap spot synthesis—didn’t realize it’d create such a kerfuffle.”

So the citrus beast was simply a citrus burst air freshener, courtesy of Whiskers’s ill-advised alchemy. Just goes to show that even in the most enchanting of worlds, the most mythical of creatures can spring from something as benign as a cat’s misguided magic.

The peanut butter at the celebratory feast that night seemed extra creamy, and in the end, isn’t that all one can ask from an adventure?

The End.