Hey hooman,

Just another day being the unofficial mayor of Pawsburgh! Rescued Bella’s ball from Harold (classic cat antics 🙄), schmoozed at The Woofy Bakery, and swapped tales with Mr. Jenkins. Living the doggo dream here – where the treats are tasty, the adventures are plenty, and my charm is as unstoppable as a squirrel in a nut shop. Be home soon for cuddles and chicken!

Tail wags and face licks,
Hazel 🐾✨

First things first, let me just say that Pawsburgh is the *it* place to be if you’re a dog. If you’ve got fur and four legs, it’s basically paradise. Or Westworld, minus the whole robot uprising thing. Picture it: Pawsburgh, under a tangerine sky – that’s where the magic happens, that’s where us canines let loose.

Take this morning, I sauntered down Sapphire Schnauzer Street, my tail keeping beat with the buzz of barking buddies all around. In this town, every tail-wag tells a tale, and sweetheart, I’ve got novels’ worth. Now, imagine me – Hazel, the paw-some pit bull, strutting my toasted marshmallow coat with the kind of flair a peacock would envy.

So, I strut into The Woofy Bakery. The bell dings above me so musically it could’ve been in a boy band. The air is a swirly mix of yeast and doggy dreams. I’m hit with the scent of canine confection perfection, and my nose does that twitchy thing it does when it knows I’m about to score some incredible edible.

The owner’s a poodle with a pouf that probably has its own weather system, and he slips me my usual – a pastry that’s part croissant, part dog treat, and entirely delectable. “For the sophisticated palate,” he winks. Oh, puh-lease. It’s a croissant shaped like a bone, Bernard. Let’s not make it a thing.

I mosey through town, to the rhythm of my own chew-slurping, when I hear the yap of distress. I swivel my pit-bull ears toward the commotion and dash towards Saluki Sands, where Bella the corgi is stuck halfway up Doberman Dunes.

“Bella, darling,” I pant, “what in the canine cosmos are you doing up there?”

She barks back in a pitch that could shatter Granny’s fine china, “I lost my ball, Hazel! It was here a second ago, and now it’s gone!”

Lost ball – the two words in the dog dictionary that spell disaster. We sniff around, our noses buried in the dunes like ostriches if they actually did that head-in-sand thing. And that’s when I spot Harold, the whiskered feline felon, batting Bella’s ball like he’s aiming for the Fuzzy Cup finals.

“Harold, drop it!” I command, but he just gives me a gaze so cool it could chill my kibble.

Then – cue the Indiana Jones theme music – Mr. Jenkins arrives. Slow and steady like a leaf on a stream. Or a really slow leaf. On a really lazy stream.

“Harold, my feline friend, let us trade that ball for a story,” Mr. Jenkins says, with his sage-old-tortoise authority that even a cat burglar can’t dismiss.

Harold considers and sits, because who could pass up a Mr. Jenkins tale? I rescue Bella’s ball, and we huddle around Jenkins, sipping on the richness of his words, forgetting we’re pets in a human’s world – at least until the world beyond Pawsburgh calls us back.

As the light starts to fade, Mr. Jenkins winds down his story. I leave with Bella at my side, the promise of savory roasted chicken luring me homeward.

And there it is: a day in the life of yours truly. Pawsburgh may be a show for the humans, but honey, the feelings? Those are as real as my disdain for that green stick of absurdity called celery. Laters, I’ve got tales to craft and adventures to unfurl – all before dinner and a blue hedgehog squeak-fest.

The End.