Hey buddy! Precious here, just wrapped up another chapter in the tale of Pawsburg where I’ve played the wagging wit in a fur-crossed romance. Strolled through puppy love under the stars and sniffed out laughs at the Dapper Dog Salon. Who knew this pitbull’s heart would fetch a story with a Bichon twist? Claws crossed for our next rendezvous under the oak! 🐾😉 ~ Pitbull Poet

Oh, there I was, lounging under the wise old oak, a philosopher of sorts in my own right, musing under the dappling sunlight about the squirrel I’d mock-chased earlier. It’s Pawsburg, a land of furry fables, where I, Precious, pitbull poet of sorts, saunter through with a tale or two wagging behind me.

Life’s a banquet, right? Well, not with citrus, I’ll tell you that. But give me a bowl of chicken, my squeaky hedgehog, and the company of my comrades, and you’ve got a snapshot of contentment. Romance though, ah, that’s a dish served with unexpected seasoning in this doggonit Pawsburg.

On that fateful day, with the breeze playing courier to scents and whispers, I find myself ambling towards Pearl Papillon Promenade, my thoughts a leash-free zone. But as fortune, that master puppeteer, would have it, there she is—Bella, with those Bichon Frise curls and a snoot so haute you’d think it’s French-bred.

She’s there at The Paw-tisserie, nibbling ever so daintily on a pastry. But come on, let’s face it, a belle like Bella and a bruiser like me… It’s like a cat at a dog show, if you catch my drift.

“Captivating canine casserole, isn’t this?” I wag my way to her, each step an overture.

Bella looks up, batting those lashes like they’re fresh outta the salon. “Could say that. Or could say it’s a normal Tuesday in Pawsburg, Precious.”

A repartee? I’m no stranger, but her wordplay was something else. There’s this thing about the Pawsburg air, it adds wit to wisdom.

So, here I am, the pitbull with the prose, trying to find my footing on the dance floor of romance, with Bella holding the scorecard. I extend an invite to Woof Waffles, and she—slipping a giggle into her accept—agrees, setting the stage for what’s about to unfold.

“Ever seen someone trying to eat a waffle gracefully?” Bella jests as our syrup-laden plates arrive thanks to a dapper Dachshund waiter with a bow tie so tight it could pop his eyes out.

I chuckle, “I’m more of a get-down-and-dirty-with-my-food type.”

That night, under Ruby Rottweiler Ridge, under the chaperone of stars, we walk. The silence isn’t awkward, it’s flavored with anticipation. Every now and then, Bella’s paw would brush mine; a jolt, like static, but warmer, fuzzier.

“You know,” she starts, her voice a tune, “I never thought I’d walk this Ridge with you, Precious. Pitbulls and Bichons, huh?”

“Life’s full of surprises. Like finding out chicken’s my favorite and not steak.”

Bella laughs, and it’s like melodies spilling over cobblestones.

Next comes the hurdle—The Dapper Dog Salon. Seems Bella’s got an appointment, her fur needing that touch of panache. And it’s there, in that den of grooming and spritzes, the comedic nature of our budding connection dawns. Me, waiting on a chair scaled for a Chihuahua, while she emerges, fluffed, puffed, and scented like a spring bloom. I’m telling you, it’s like waiting at the dentist, only you leave smelling better than when you arrived.

Through Schnauzer Street we meander, and as the Pawsburgh clock ticks the eleventh hour, our evening has to close. But not before we promise to meet again, under that oak, to trade more stories, more laughs, a tangle of tails.

Back with my human, snuggled close, the scent of Bella’s salon-fresh curls buried in my sniffer, I recount our escapade. Humans, they dream of such tales, write them in scripts, often with Hugh Grant in mind. But this, my chum, this romantic comedy—it’s as doggone real as it gets, and this brindle-coated storyteller—well, I’m just warming up.

The End.