Hey Human,

Murphy here, your crimson-caped Shorkie hero! Just navigated the biscuit-scented byways and dodged Sirius’s pranks to deliver the goods. Turns out, I became part of a plot twist that would make even Mel Brooks bark with laughter. Granny’s got me, and we’re all howling with mirth. ‘Til tomorrow, dream of our Pawsburgh where every legend has four paws and a tail. 🐾

Night!
– Red Riding Hound

Ah, salute, dear hominid! It’s I, Murphy, your favorite Black Shorkie, speaking—I mean, narrating. My dear human, I’ve spun quite the yarn for you, hearkening back to the fabled Pawsburgh, where canines with character rewrite the stories of old. Imagine, if you will, a certain tale about a girl they called Red, but here in the realm of barking knights, we have a different crimson character.

Once, in the great Diamond Doberman Dunes, your loyal Murphy donned a marvelous cape, the reddest red, a prize for dogged deeds. I strutted under the boughs twisted and taloned—a traveler bound for Granny’s, they said, but tails twist, and today we’re bound for dear Whisker’s—a cat of noble blood and questionable taste.

I pranced past Barker’s Bakery, resisting the siren’s scent of bone-shaped brioche, past the sizzling sidelines of Paw-lickin’ Pancakes. Yet, despite salivation, I had a package to deliver—chock full of those chicken treats no four-legger could refuse.

Into the woods of Mastiff Meadows, beneath the Blue Basenji Bay’s glow, I ventured. ‘Course in these parts, talk buzzed of a Wolf—a slick-furred prankster with a penchant for poultry and grandmas. The name? Sirius Blacktail, a misunderstood mutt if there ever was one.

We met amidst the apathetic oaks, he with the wild in his wag, I with a basket snug under tooth.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Red Riding Hound,” he howled, barely concealing a canine cackle.

“Save it, Sirius,” I barked back. “Got deliveries to make, grand-cats to visit, and nary a second for your tomfoolery.”

“Lemme guess, off to Granny’s with those?” He sniffed at my cargo, paws practically pirouetting. “You know they’re better shared, Murph.”

That rascal. Always a jest and a jive away from jim-dandy trouble!

“You’ve no granny, Sirius, and I’ve no patience today!” Off I scampered, but mark my words, that Wolf wasn’t done.

I arrived at The Canine Cafe, the clinks and clatters of dishes a mere backdrop to my tale. Whisker’s place was above, a posh pad plush with catnap charms. A knock, a meow, and there she was, Granny Whisker, in all her whiskery splendor.

“Delivery,” I announced, dropping the basket with a flourish. “Chicken treasures fresh from the…” My snout failed to finish, for something was amiss.

Whisker flipped the lid, and out burst Sirius! That hound had hoodwinked me, swapped the snacks for himself!

“Oh, Murphy,” purred Granny Whisker, waving a paw in fond reprimand. “You’ve brought me the best treat yet—a bold brave buddy to beat the boredom!”

We chuckled, Granny, Wolf, and Hound, in the shelter of the Café, three outlandish amigos in a tale tall and true. Our afternoon waned to evening, shared stories, and humor—Mel Brooksian and bright as the sapphires of Basenji Bay.

In our Pawsburgh, dear human, where beef bones never end and where every fire hydrant is your personal friend, the stories stir well beyond the twilight’s calling. I, the hero in red, the bringer of laughter, not merely a dog but a legend, a bestower of happily ever after.

Now, as the stars blink above our earthly haven, I’ll dream of the dunes, the meadows, and bays—my tail, a banner of cheer, marking the cadence of adventures retold in the whispers of the night air. Goodnight, my human compatriot. Tomorrow, we spin another tale.

The End.