Hey buddy,

Just saved Pawsburgh from a quake—the hero life chose me. Not all capes flap in the wind, some just have wagging tails. Now, throw me a bone… I mean, a chicken treat. Hero’s orders!

Over and out,
Creed 🐾🦴

I should’ve known the minute I plopped onto the sun-warmed cobblestones of Pomeranian Park that it wasn’t going to be an ordinary day in Pawsburgh. You might say it was a Collie’s intuition, or perhaps the way my tail had refused to wag that morning. But let’s face it, I’m Creed – not your average philosopher, just your not-so-humble, chicken-loving pit with zero tolerance for ear-cleaning and a penchant for mischief.

Now, let me paint you a picture — imagine me, Creed, all muscles and curiosity packed into a blue-grey coat that’s sleeker than a Doberman’s sales pitch, sitting in the heart of Pawsburgh. The sky didn’t have a single cloud that looked like a bone, which, in my book, was the first sign of imminent doom.

I’d trotted in from The Dapper Dog Salon, my coat shiny enough to blind a bat, when this mingling scent of Puppy Patisserie’s croissants wove past my nose, trailed by Mutt Munchies’ steak aroma. It was a good day to be a dog or a feast for olfactory senses — until the ground beneath us started to shake.

You know how we dogs hate the vacuum monster? Well, imagine the very earth beneath Pawsburgh pulling a mega version of that accursed machine. It had everyone’s fur standing on end. The quake rumbled, buildings swayed, and for a terrifying moment, confusion barked louder than any of us.

But as I said, I’m Creed. Fear may bite at my heels, but I don’t turn tail and run. I’m more of a face-the-storm, lead-the-pack sort of chap. And face it we did, as the ground’s grumbling grew into a roar, and Pawsburgh shuddered like a pup in a thunderstorm.

The pups around Pomeranian Park were a whirling dervish of yips and yaps. I made a beeline for Mastiff Meadows, knocking into a startled Spaniel in my rush. Here, space was on our side, and being the pit that I am, I took charge. My bark cut through the chaos like a hot knife through butter.

“Everyone, to me! We’re moving to higher ground; Bloodhound Bluffs should be safe!” I howled over the din. And wouldn’t you know it, in a town where the bark is often worse than the bite, they followed.

The tremors chased our tails, turning a plain walk into an obstacle course. A little Corgi alongside me was panting like he’d run a marathon, and I scooped him up in my jaws, his stubby legs dangling with each of my strides.

We reached the safety of Bloodhound Bluffs, out of breath and with enough static in our fur to power the lights back in the Pup’s Poutine. But we were all right. All of us. Not a dog left behind, not even the Corgi I’d temporarily adopted.

It was a disaster, all right, but Pawsburgh, it stood strong, with its tail held high. And sure, I might have a little more swagger in my step now, but anyone would’ve done it — well, maybe not the Yorkie who’s afraid of his own shadow. But still, crisis or not, we’re a pack, and that’s how we roll.

So, here I sit, back in my own beloved kingdom, the backyard, surveying a domain that’s once again peaceful… Until the next adventure, of course.

And hey, if anyone asks you who saved Pomeranian Park from the grand shakeup, just give them a knowing look and say, “You know Creed – always the hero, even on his day off.” Then throw me a chicken treat, will you? A hero’s gotta eat.

The End.