Hey Ma,

Just had to be the hero in Pawsburgh today. Storm hit us hard, but me and the crew – we sandbagged Pup’s Poutine like champs. Think of it, your Big M leading a bulldog brigade against Mother Nature’s bad mood! Beach almost got washed away, but we saved the day. Tired, wet, but tails are wagging. Don’t worry, your white boy’s got this.

Catch you later,
Mugsy

As I sat on the worn wooden bench outside The Canine Cafe, licking the last vestiges of gravy from my chops, the unmistakable tremor of an approaching disaster shook Pawsburgh to its very foundation. It’s Mugsy here, your amiable American Bulldog friend, and let me tell you, this was no run-of-the-mill disturbance.

The earth rumbled beneath my paws, and not in the delightful way that heralds a visit to Kelpie Keys with the gang. Taken aback but resilient, I rose from my spot with a shake, my large cropped ears perking up. The Howling Husky Hardware store’s wind chimes clanged in dissonance—a siren call for the impending upheaval.

From Doberman Dunes to Pomeranian Park, tails were tucked, and howls sliced through the air. Something vast and menacing was stirring, and my immediate thought was, “Blimey, this will muck up our afternoon trot along the beach.” I’ve always had a nose for comfort, you see. And comfort doesn’t involve one’s sand-laden haunt turning topsy-turvy.

Chichi and the rest of the Bulldog bunch—Shmu, Bandit, Minnie Pearl, and Ice—congregated at Pooch’s Pub, earflaps suffering in the awkward silence that nestled in our group like an unwelcome flea. Chichi’s grey visage was taut, strained with worry.

“There’s talk a mighty storm’s bearing down on us,” Ice said, his voice just above a mutter, like a growl stuck halfway up his throat. His ivory coat bristled with anxiety.

A booming clap of thunder emphasised his point. The clouds above, once benign and fluffy as cotton balls at Mutt Munchies bakery, turned as dark and foreboding as an overdone steak—unappealing to the canine palate.

Rain pelted down, creating craters in the ground the size of large kibble pieces. The tempest had announced itself unceremoniously, and it cared not a whisker for our sheltered lives in Pawsburgh.

“The beach,” I gasped, heart thundering louder than the storm. “It’ll be swamped. My precious coast!” My paws instinctively dug into the earth, as if I could command the weather to abate with stern paw gestures and gruff barks. Futile, of course, yet fright joined by stubbornness has its own mad methods.

“Come on, Mugs,” Chichi tried to offer reassurance, though her eyes betrayed the futility. “This isn’t your first downpour. Plus, you despise baths, remember?”

“Despise is a strong term,” I countered, though the jape lacked its intended levity. “Let’s say I find them inconvenient.”

A plan was rapidly concocted amongst ourselves—perhaps inadvisable in its hasty genesis, but a call to paws was needed. We’d navigate the relentless rain, make for Pup’s Poutine, and sandbag the entrance against the onslaught, guardian angels to the gourmet gravy and cheese.

Dodging patio chairs-turned-driftwood at The Barking Boutique, the barkade and I battled on, soaked to the bone. I rather envision a bulldog isn’t quite the aquatic creature he fancies himself in moments of delusional bravery. Yet there’s something in adversity that binds friends tighter than a chewed-up leather leash. And so, we marched.

Hours of arduous tofurkey. We protected not only Pup’s but half the shops on Main Barkway.

In the end, as the skies cleared, revealing a spectrum of luminescent hues, we found ourselves in a rather soggy circle, panting and exhausted, the waters receding, leaving only camaraderie and a newfound appreciation for the sturdy construction of Pawsburgh.

This town—it’s more than a getaway for dogs evading vacuums and ear cleanings. It’s a testament to the strength of its furry inhabitants and the unyielding bond that ties our paws together. Not even the fiercest of storms could diminish it.

I, Mugsy, the paradoxical bulldog, couldn’t help but feel grateful for every raindrop, for it only proved: In Pawsburgh, with courage and friends, my home, even disaster dances to the tune of our howls.

The End.