Hey Mom,

Just a quick tail-wag from River Bottom! Today I traded my usual frisbee duel with Whiskers for a scentventure on the wild trails of Pawsburgh – chasing down a mysterious aroma combo of apples and cucumbers. Maybe it’s a new clue or just a fresh snack, only my nose knows! I’ll keep you posted if this leads to a new chapter in my dog-eared diaries.

Wags and licks,
River (or Sugar Booger when you’re feeling sweet)

There’s something about Pawsburgh that sets a dog’s tail to wagging in a rhythm that’s more contemplative than just happy, more narrative than merely excited. Call it magic, call it that bone-deep intuition we dogs have; it’s what tells you the tales worth telling don’t begin with a loud bark but a whispered growl and an adventure-ready stance.

Now, take it from me, River Bottom – that black Labrador with the white splash on the chest, almost like I dipped myself in whitewash while helping out at a barn raising. I’ve seen many a sun set over Whippet Way and witnessed twilight descend upon Weimaraner Woods, wrapping around Lhasa Lane like a cloak spun from the finest silken shadows.

On a day not-at-all-different from any other, for difference is a tall tale that doesn’t quite sit right with dogs who know every day’s an adventure, I found myself trotting down the dusty streets of Pawsburgh, my four paws kicking up little clouds that smelt of adventure and freshly baked biscuits from The Woofy Bakery.

“You’re lookin’ sprightly today, River,” Bentley, with his tattered ears and yarns longer than a winter’s night, drawled from his usual spot by The Wagging Tail Bookstore. Never one to miss a good story, Bentley had more lines on his face than a pup has fleas after a romping day in the meadows.

I gave him a nod and a wag – words are silver, silence is golden and all that, especially when you’ve got a frisbee rendezvous at high noon with one tabby outlaw who thinks her reflexes are quicker than my own. Whiskers, her name, and she was waiting at the duck pond; you know the one, nestled in Whispering Pines where the world seems to hush, just to let the ducks do the talking.

The Old West ain’t old to those still living it; it’s merely the West, as sprawling and tumbled as a game of catch gone gloriously out of paw. And though Pawsburgh’s everyday could fit right into a tale of cowboys and frontiers, today had a shimmer of something more.

“You plannin’ on joinin’ the round-up at sundown, River?” Whiskers called out, her voice as sharp as her claws, her grin as broad as the Montana sky.

“Just around to ruffle some feathers and wet my whiskers,” I replied, tongue lolling out in that way that showed I was jesting, in a bark’s sense of humor sort of way.

We squared off, the frisbee hanging like a promise between us in the air as the ducks quacked a tune that could’ve been called The Ballad of River and Whiskers. Now, normally I’d dive right into our game, but something rustled in the brush, something that spoke of whispers and secrets, the kind that a dog like me, more curious than a cat – apologies to present company – just couldn’t ignore.

A soft jingle, a scent on the breeze – but not just any ol’ scent. Apples, yes, sweet as a sunny day and fresh as newfallen snow – but behind it, hiding like a bandit in the undergrowth – the tang of cucumbers.

My nose wrinkled, my stance stiffened, every hair on my back standing to attention like it had heard reveille and was ready for inspection. I turned to Whiskers with what might have been a conspiratorial glint in my eyes if they hadn’t been so busy being vigilant.

The End.