Hey Mom,

Just wanted to let you know that as Captain Paloma of the S.S. Bulldog, I’ve been navigating the cosmos with my paws firmly at the helm. We zigzagged through the Comfy Couch Nebula, judged interstellar chicken cuisine, and dodged the dreaded Broccoli Belt—I know, my heroism knows no bounds. Can’t wait to tell you all the tails, I mean tales, when I’m back. Miss our sunlit backyard, but for now, the stars are home.

Catch you on the flip side of the moon,
Toots 🐾✨

In the ever-wandering cosmos, where stars bloom and fade like celestial dandelions, the S.S. Bulldog boldly trots where no four-legged creature has trotted before. Within this stout-hearted starship, I, Captain Paloma, navigate the map of the heavens with a spirit akin to my earthly explorations of Pawsburg.

Stardate: the umpteenth bone of contention, when my crew and I awake to the gentle hum of the Bulldog’s engines, the crooning lullabies of the galaxy, whispering of untold doggy bags of adventure. Today’s journey foretells veering into the unknown regions of the Comfy Couch Nebula, armed solely with the sheen of my red-fawn fur and that striking white stripe adorning my face.

“Natty,” I call to our helmsdog, a dachshund with legs too short for his own bold aspirations, “set a course for relaxation.”

“Don’t you mean ‘starboard’?” Guiness, the ever-pensive terrier, interjects with his head tilted—perpetually second-guessing the stars, “or is that port in the vast belly of space?”

“You’re both out of your canine minds,” chimes in Kahlua, our spaniel of operations, her tone dancing between amusement and slight exasperation.

In the comfy chair on the bridge—my rightful place—I ignore the humdrum of the vacuum-chambers’ gentle roar, the sworn enemy of my otherwise peaceful existence. My vigilant ears perk up as we pass Jade Jack Russell Junction, which on this plane of reality, shifts and wobbles like a lure at the end of a fishing line; just out of reach, exacerbating my delicious stubbornness.

Today’s mission, coded ‘Chicken’: a culinary quest to bestow my revered palate upon this universe’s equivocal poultry. Not unlike the affair of many a Pup’s Poutine luncheon or sessions of taste-testing at Pom’s Pies, I am sought for my sage approval. My tongue, an oracle dowsing the richness of flavor, forecasts a smattering of satisfaction upon each savory bite.

Our course is set astern for the Sapphire Schnauzer Street of stars, where cosmic chefs wait in giddy angst for my verdict. Absently, I thwack my stuffed T-rex companion against the console, simulating my famed tug-of-war victories.

“I declare,” Kahlua announces, “we are approaching the Howling Husky Hardware Store for supplies—specifically chew toys and space-leashes.”

“And The Pampered Pooch Salon, Captain,” Guiness adds, “perhaps for a trim of your…stellar stripes?”

A snort escapes me, half-derision, half-solace. This starship is my paradise, though I often find myself pining for simple, sunlit reveries back in Pawsburg. I muse silently on my isle of tranquility, the backyard through which whispers of wind run free, and where leaves—or in this peculiar case, asteroids—flee from my curious bark.

A word catches in the throat of the universe: the ‘V-word.’ Vegetation. My snout wrinkles at the mere echo of this alien concept.

“Captain, shall we chart a course away from that greenish nebula?” Kahlua teases.

“Aye, away from the Broccoli Belt,” I command, as we veer philosophically towards where chicken abounds, in every shape, form, and galaxy.

As I, Captain Paloma, steer the S.S. Bulldog back towards Pawsburg’s familiar orbit, I review my day’s log: Stars: tickled. Chums: entertained. Universe: utterly and irrevocably charmed.

This is my starship, my crew, our journey. Through the lens of Pawsburg, we venture beyond, where our tales await, sprawled out like a canine’s best afternoon nap. Dog-tired we might be, but in the pages of the stars, Paloma remains a legend—a constellation in her own right, dancing in the skyward dog park, chasing the endless frisbee of life.

The End.