Hey Dad,

Just saved Pawsburgh from drowning in gravy by steering it towards Newfoundland Nook with the flotilla crew! Town’s hailing me as the hero of the Great Gravy Disaster ’23. All in a day’s work for Oreo, the sea shepherd of savory seas! 🐾

Catch you at dinner – we’re having Mt. Saint Gravy leftovers.

– Captain Cookie 🍪

When an unassuming day in Pawsburgh turned into the Great Gravy Disaster of ’23, I, Oreo the Brindle Boxer, found myself in the thick of it, narrating this, as your whirlwind tour guide through the chaos. So, here’s the scoop—or should I say, the ladle.

It was a Tuesday, which in itself is a day that can’t decide if it’s a leftover Monday or a pre-pre-pre-Friday. I’d just indulged in a frolic-fueled expedition across Vizsla Valley, which, let’s be honest, set my legs to jellying more than Grandma Lura’s famous peanut butter cookies.

Anyhow, there I was, set on dining at Canine Kabobs, all set to munch on everything but, you know… seafood. Yuck. Just when I put my paw up to push the door, the earth rumbled beneath my paws—an earthquake? No, that’d be too predictable for Pawsburgh.

Instead, out burst a geyser of hot, steaming gravy from the very center of town square, like some unscheduled Pawsburgh Fountain Show. All four-legged folks stood stunned, ears pricked up; a Schnauzer over by The Snooty Snout Boutique nearly lost his monocle.

This was a dog’s dream and nightmare all rolled into one—a condiment catastrophe that overshadowed even the ketchup flood of ’21. Thing is, disasters are kind of like eating contest burps—you never quite see them coming, and when they do, everyone suddenly becomes an expert on how you should’ve paced your chewing.

It was obvious we needed a plan. And not just any plan, one that involved less running around than a game of fetch with a tennis ball shot out of a cannon. Timber, true to his name, was quick to bark orders, rallying the Terriers to dig a gravy moat. Grandma Lura suggested we find a giant brioche to soak it up (bless her carb-loving heart).

I, on the other paw, had a flash of genius—likely from too many episodes of “MacGyver.” Why not direct this river of gravy flow toward Newfoundland Nook? With their water rescue skills, they could easily navigate this delicious deluge. A few persuasive woofs later, and the plan was in motion.

Despite my disdain for fish, I’ll admit, guiding the gravy required herding skills that made me feel like some sort of nautical shepherd—a skipper with a snout.

We embarked on our maritime mission. Our flotilla of frisbees, inflatable bones, and the odd rubber duck, headed by the brave Newfies and yours truly, bravely sailed the savory sea. With each paddle, splash, and doggy-paddle, we steered the gravy tsunami to a halt by Malamute Mountain, where it cooled into a rather picturesque pâté landscape.

As the gravy hardened, Pawsburgh found itself a new tourist attraction—Mt. Saint Gravy. Kids would talk about the Gravy Gushers for generations, and the cats, well, they didn’t show up because, obviously, they couldn’t handle the whisker-twitching enormity of it all.

In the aftermath, we had a town-wide feast because, let’s face it, we’re dogs—we find a way to chew through any crisis. I was hailed a hero, sort of like if Lassie wore a baker’s hat instead of a collar. And as for the disaster? We turned it into a diner’s delight, because in Pawsburgh, you either roll over or you roll with it.

So, while I lounge in my sunbathing spot, dreaming of car rides with jowls flapping free, I can’t help but smirk. Because somewhere in an exquisitely silly Pawsburgh universe, I’m the dog that turned an oozy obstacle into a tale to tell and a legend to lap up.

The End.