Hey Mom, Piper here! 🐾 Survived my own tail-wagging adventure today—escaped the fenced monotony, declared war on baths, raced my shadow, and sniffed out my future one Blue Buffalo scent at a time. Growing up’s wilder than a pack of squirrels, but don’t worry, my bark’s still homegrown. Adventures conquered: 1, Stuffing-less foxes destroyed: Also 1. See you at dinner, with all my doggy wisdom intact! 🦴🐶 – Pawsburgh Piper

Well, it was just one of those Pawsburgh mornings when the sky stretches out like a big blue yawn and the sun tickles the back of your ears—had I ears prone to such things. Me, Piper, the most riveting Blue Merle Sheltie this side of Opal Pomeranian Park, had plans bigger than the Great Dane Mayor’s appetite at the Bark Buffet.

There’s a tingling in your paws, a sort of electric friskiness, on the day you realize the fence you’ve been eyeing—the one penning you in—it’s just sticks. It’s just wire. And life, my four-legged friends, is on the other side. That was today for me, toeing the grass at the edge of adolescence, ready to leap into the sprawling meadow of doggy adulthood.

Fetching the Tough no filling floppy fox, (a mouthful, I know, even without the stuffing) I darted past The Groom Room with the self-righteous air of someone who detests baths. I heard someone say once that baths are like celery—some sort of necessary evil—but I disagree. They’re both horrid, but at least celery doesn’t give chase.

I made for Amber Akita Alley, my joy only partially shared with the whispering wind, for you see, sometimes growing up beckons you to solo ventures, no matter how your fur stands up at the thought of solitude. Today the Alley was emptier than a promise of “it’s just one more shot” from the vet.

But alone, I pondered the canines of my adolescence. There was Maximus, the barking bulldog philosopher who once told me, “Piper, dread not the water, for it is but a mirror, reflecting your own doggedness.” I ran faster.

With my floppy fox clenched like a sailor’s knot, I galloped, a streak of gray, white, and black, until Emerald Eskimo Estuary rose before me like a mirage made for mutts. Was I growing up? There were the mountains of my heart, and the trails, like life, had many forks and food crumbs.

But I digress. Because just then, darting out like gossip in a room full of Pomeranians, came a scent. Blue Buffalo Chicken wet food, no less, wafting from the Doggone Deli.

“It’s just one sniff,” I told myself. Yet, there’s something about a scent—it’s like memory, or regret, neither of which fully leaves you once it’s settled in. A line of drool might have betrayed me had anyone been looking.

Pushing on, the floppy fox losing some of its majestic fluff, I arrived at Woof Waffles as the afternoon waned. A gaggle of geriatric greyhounds gobbled down gastronomic delights, and I was reminded that tastes change, company changes, and most of all, we change.

“Oh, Piper,” cooed Beatrice, the oldest and wisest of the pack, as her eyes squinted like they held the world’s stories. “You’ve got the look of the wanderer about you.”

Did I? The floppiness of my fox suddenly seemed frivolous. But then again, even the most stalwart of dog toys start crisp and end up frayed.

The day felt like a romp, wild, but also a lesson swaddled in fur and four-legged frolics. Time, that eternal fetch game, was teaching me that there were more things to chase than just balls and dreams of mountains.

As I headed home, the estuary whispered, “Grow, but don’t outgrow your bark.” And I thought, quite proudly—I hadn’t, not yet. But growing up, well, it’s a tail of many turns, and who’s to say where this Sheltie will shake her fluff next?

There you have it, a snippet from the dog-eared book of Piper’s life. From Pawsburgh to the peaks of self-discovery, one thing’s for certain—I’ll return to my bed tonight with a few less imaginary friends and one more real adventure tucked beneath my collar.

The End.