Hey fam! 😄🐾 It’s your boy Buddyjac (AKA Badu) here. Just wanted to say that this morning I became the unexpected hero of Pawsburgh! Confronted with a groovy gang of ghostly pooches while jogging through the Diamond Doberman Dunes, I faced them with squeaks and sass! We ended up parting on good terms – no haunts, just hounds. Turns out, I’m not just a family cuddler but a phantom whisperer too! Who knew? Tail wags & wet nose bops to all! 🐕👻✨ #PawsburghProtector

The first inklings of dawn had barely grazed the skyline when I, Buddyjac, an unassuming fluff of sunshine and joy, found myself in the less-chartered bushels of Diamond Doberman Dunes. The day promised adventure, but not of the tail-wagging kind I was accustomed to. Today, Pawsburg echoed with a different, darker kind of call, and it was here, in the base of my paws, that I felt the initial thrum of something—oh, dare I say—a tad supernatural.

I’d traipsed past The Wagging Tail Bookstore, where tales of hounds and haunts lined the shelves, seductive and eerie in their bindings. But I wasn’t one for fright; I had squeaky toy battles to win, my precious fox toy awaiting slobbery conquest.

The air, though, it held a chill that whispered of things unsaid, and smells other than the usual scents of Setter’s Steakhouse that wafted deliciously downwind. I shook my head; such was not the time for a belly’s pleading.

Pawsburgh, all gables and cobblestones and eager yaps, had always been my sanctuary from the ear-cleanings and solitude of the human world. But not now. Now it seemed that the tales that had sprung from the tongues of elder Sheepdogs and the spooky Poodle poets under full moons were amassing into a tangible, creeping fog that rolled in from Shiba Inlet like a silent hound on the hunt.

I used my most charming grin, the one that always set tails at The Doggie Daycare into enviable wags, hoping it would disarm whatever specter hid in the mist. But charm, I realized, has little currency in the ethereal exchange.

At Lhasa Lane, my paws halted against the cobblestone. The fog had embraced me, and through it came a procession of ghostly figures—they were dogs of Pawsburg past, it seemed, each with eyes that held ancient fires. I even saw an ethereal Great Dane, as noble in death as he had been in life, leading the march.

“Ahem,” I began, eloquence deserting me. “I hope you find yourself well this fine morning?” It was met with silence, save for the fog’s whisper and a distant echo from Paw-tisserie, where no doubt a nervous Terrier now cowered beneath its tables.

I wagged cautiously. A low growl escaped me, more from confusion than any real attempt at bravado. Was I to flee to the refuge of cuddles with Mom, or stand as guardian of my beloved Pawsburg?

The apparitions halted, a specter of a Spaniel stepping forward. Suddenly, recalling my possession of spirit—both feisty and cheery—I addressed the assembly with newfound resolve and considerable pluck.

“Okay, chums,” I said, voice resonant and surprisingly unshaky. “Of all the dens in all the towns in all the world, you drift into mine. What say you we partake in a less hair-raising congregation? I mean, I’m armed with squeaks and good cheer.”

My courage, or perhaps my peculiarity, seemed to pierce the veil of eeriness. The Spaniel tilted its head, an almost smile gracing its ghostly form. The procession of canine spirits, with an air of resigned good-nature, began to disperse, melting back into the morning mist from whence they came.

Heart thumping but tail still high, I trotted with newfound purpose back towards the heart of Pawsburg. If Diamond Doberman Dunes harbored mysteries, I concluded, let them be explored at the break of day, with the warmth of the sun at one’s back.

So there, in the comforting camaraderie of Terrier Tacos, I relayed my tale of ghostly gallantry over a “fearless Fajita,” much to the amusement of my audience. Pawsburg, our Pawsburg—where even the supernatural is met with a wag and a woof.

The End.

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