Hey Mom,

Just a quick update from Pawsburg—your boy Corbin’s gone and got himself in a tailspin of love! Had a dinner date with Bella, the Beagle with lashes that could provoke a tailstorm. Survived a chicken fluff storm of my own making and romanced her through a rain-splattered evening. Turns out, I hate baths a little less when it’s raining romance. Who knew? 😅🐾 Catch you on the flip side!

Love,
Corbeebee

When the moon hung high like a silver medallion, the invisible gates of Pawsburg creaked open just for us, the four-legged nocturnal wanderers. Me? I call myself Corbin, a dapper Boston Terrier, and on one particularly crisp evening, I found myself trotting down Whippet Way with an agenda. You see, not even in the magical confines of a town for dogs could I shake off the pining for someone to nuzzle noses with.

I turned the corner into Chestnut Cocker Courtyard—a dazzling spread of cobblestone flanked by twinkling fairy lights when the scent hit me. Ah, the savory affections of Puppy Plate, where the aroma of chicken, gently seasoned in a canine-culinarian fashion, wafted through the air. I had a dinner date.

“Corbin, dahling!” cried Bella, a beguiling Beagle with the sort of eyelashes that could incite a tailspin. She sat poised at the most secluded table, a rose between her paws. “You’re right on time. Or I’m early, see? Who decides these things anyway?”

I sidled into my seat, all attempts at nonchalance thwarted by the way my tail betrayed my composure in her presence. “Time’s a human construct, Bella. Here it’s just you, me, and an endless evening.”

She nibbled on a chimichanga (Chihuahua’s Chimichangas catering, naturally), batting said lashes. “Corbin, you’re a poet. But seriously, you’ll eat your food properly, won’t you? Last time you got so excited, it was like a chicken fluff storm.”

“Promised,” I replied, and truly, I intended to. But as the plates arrived, the waft of chicken was Achilles’ heel and manners—heaven help me—tumbled into an abyss.

The date progressed with the cadence of a ballroom dance; we talked of the park, of friends, and dealt with the occasional table etiquette mishap (I can only apologize for enthusiastic chomping so many times).

Afterward, as I escorted Bella to The Pooch Playhouse for a late cabaret show, a splattering rain commenced. To most dogs, a minor inconvenience. To me, a battle cry.

“Baths,” I muttered with grave solemnity as I shook off the droplets. “The bane of my existence…”

“Is that so?” Bella teased, her head cocked at an angle only heartbreakers can achieve, “Because I find a well-timed rain romantic.”

I stopped under the awning of The Barking Boutique; gazing at her, something within me shifted. A sopping, sodden moment on Whippet Way became the backdrop of a revelation. Bella, unfussed by the rain, was the companion to my solitude, a poetry in the drizzle.

“Baths,” I amended, “have potential—given the right company.”

“Is that your idea of a compliment?” Her laughter, a staccato symphony under the shop’s awning, lit up the street like the fairy lights above. “If it is, I’ll take it, Corbin, you charmer.”

The evening culminated with promises of second dates and shared doggie bags from Bark Buffet, our tails entangled briefly as we said our goodbyes and returned to the invisibility of our everyday lives.

As I lay on my back in the yard later, staring up at the inky sky, I counted my blessings like stars. The romantic escapades of a Boston Terrier in the enchanted Pawsburg twinkled in my heart. A happy chuckle escaped my lips, the plush toys forgotten at my side. For in that moonlit chaparral of love and raindrops, a simple game of fetch seemed suddenly trivial. Corbin the Terrier was in love, and that, my friends, is no small tale.

The End.

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