Hey Mom,

Just wanted to let you know that I’m not only the Bark of the Block here but also Pawsburgh’s Time-Traveling Hero! Accidentally turned my ball into a time machine, feasted on ancestral chicken, and wove through the ages with the gang. All paws and tails are intact! Time-hopping has nothing on your belly rubs though. – Stormy 🐾⏳🐔

Title: Storm’s Timeless Tail-wagging Tale

Hey there, human friends, it’s me, Storm! Just your average Great Dane with the not-so-average ability to tesser through time—which, honestly, is even cooler than scoring the last piece of chicken at a barbecue. So, strap in, because have I got a story for you. Did I mention I’m basically a legend in the illustrious town of Pawsburgh? Yeah, hold your applause.

One zesty Pawsburgh evening, as the moon played peek-a-boo behind my dappled coat, my buddies and I decided to hit Pawprint Pizzeria – I’m all about that chicken topping, hold the lemon zest, thank you very much. We were just talking about the time I managed to snatch Sal’s frisbee midair (legendary, I know), when the ground beneath our paws began to shimmer, like the world was winking at us.

Before I could say “Fetch,” a vortex of stars and tails enveloped us, whisking us away from our Pawsburgh sanctuary.

Turns out, the red ball I brought—my trusty, frayed-to-perfection pal—wasn’t a regular ball. It was more ‘Doctor Who’s TARDIS’ than ‘fetch toy.’ Crazy, right? But there we were, tumbling through the fabric of…whatever it is time is made out of.

We popped out at Spitz Spire, but not the Spitz Spire we knew. This was old-school Spitz Spire, like ‘Ye Olde Pawsburgh’ kind of old. Picture this: me and my posse of doggo pals standing there, jaws dropped (and not just because someone dropped a bone). Tiny Tim, the Chihuahua with nerves of steel, scampered over, yipping in that tiny voice of his, “Dudes, we’re in the past!”

The air smelled like adventure—and maybe slightly of wet dog—but that’s when an idea hit me like a freefalling bag of kibble.

“Why not fetch some historical chicken!” I suggested, tail sweeping back and forth like I was painting the Mona Lisa with fur.

So off we scurried to Paw-lickin’ Pancakes, the chicken legend. Even time travel couldn’t change how much this place was a hit. The scent pulled me by the nostrils, all the way to the counter. Bernadette, the St. Bernard, grumbled, “Yes, but there are pancakes, too, Storm—remember variety?”

“Variety, shmiety,” I retorted, with the confidence of a dog who knew what he wanted. “Would you say that to a drumstick? I didn’t think so.”

The owner, a bulldog with more wrinkles than a laundry basket, slid a plate of the most glorious chicken in front of me. And there, under the gaze of Pawsburgh’s noble ancestors, I feasted. We all did.

As mid-chomp, the red ball pulsed again, and with it the floor. “Uh oh,” I mumbled, chicken still hanging from my jowls. My friends were already in a ruckus, their eyes screaming, “Not again!”

Whoosh! Before another bone could be buried, we landed back at good old Cocker Courtyard. Pawsburgh, our Pawsburgh, bustling with modern barks and the chimes of The Wagging Tail Bookstore. Time hadn’t changed a whisker.

Bernie sighed in relief, “I thought we were goners. Or would be stuck wearing collars from the Middle Ages.”

I let out a chortle, all nonchalant, because let’s face it, coming back to your own time with a belly full of chicken? That’s a win in my book.

And as I laid down on my grassy knoll, pals at my paw-tips, the red ball by my side, I thought, “Who needs a DeLorean, when you’ve got a legend—and a ball like this?”

The End.