Hey Mom,

Had the wildest day in Pawsburgh! Became a detective with Prescott & Tigger, exploring a paused world where frisbees and rubber balls hung mid-air. We’re calling it the Pawsburgh Paradox. Unraveled the mystery just before the humans returned—typical day, right? Now, I’m just a hero Boston Terrier with a story that’s fetched more than just a ball!

Tails wagging,
Corbeebee 🐾

So it is, I’m Corbin, the Boston Terrier with a patchy sidekick coat and a zest for the zestiness of life. I find myself, rather ordinary by Pawsburgh standards, romping through the mystical scapes of Shar-Pei Shores, nose sniffing the briny air. I’m off-leash in my narrative today, trotting into the picturesque scene of illicit escapades where us dogs weave tales to bark back home, all hush-hush, under the covers of twilight yawns.

It was on such an average yet unaverage day, blinking into existence, that strangeness parked itself on our lawns. There I was in Quartz Qimmiq Quarter, having outpulled three Dachshunds in tug-of-war, my rubber ball triumphantly underpaw. The ball, it was more than chew-proof; it was me-proof. Unrumpable.

Sidestepping into the Canine’s Cuisine, the whim caught me, and a juicy chicken treat soon adored my familiar bowl. Simultaneously, the jingles of “Paw Pad Thai” echoed tantalizing, playing tunes with the idea of peanut butter biscuits. It was a conundrum, a delightful one, best decided with a biscuit in belly and the park promises ahead.

Prescott, the tuxedo cat wannabe-doge, and Tigger, the tabby tumbling into trouble, trotted tail-to-tail with me as I voyaged towards adventure, and here’s where the script dog-ears. The sky, reflectively lazy, seemed to drip into peculiarity as the park was no longer just a park. There hung a stillness, like after a fetch where the ball doesn’t bounce back.

And there, in the silent hum, a frisbee hung mid-air. Quite literally, motionless, inches off the ground. Clouds were no longer sheep to be chased in mind’s sky, but heavy and thick, holding their breath. Terrier Town, not far off, felt distant like another universe, or dimension rather, one of Vonnegutian whims.

“So it goes,” I whispered to Prescott, who blinked away his “above-it-all” poise, and Tigger nearly tumbled into stillness. My rubber ball lay by my paw, and I found myself considering hefting it into the anomaly before us, testing temporal ticks.

I did just that—welcoming the challenge. The ball sailed, more graceful than my usual chomp and chase, suspended in time, space, sanity. Just like the frisbee.

“Precarious,” I thought, a word blooming in a mind saturated with canine capers. The park breathed with me, paused with me, hummed a tune of still frames. I turned my gaze to Prescott, to Tigger, and they knew; we were no longer just creatures of fetching, but watchers of wonders.

We three, Chronicle Curators of the Pawsburgh Paradox, stood as sentries of the stalled frisbee and hovering ball, considering what fur-ensuing follies might unfold if these items were to ever drop. Humankind was not on that day’s attendance check, and it’s good they weren’t—too many questions and not enough treats.

This is the mechanism of Pawsburgh, untraveled even by their sleepwalks—where dogs and company rally ’round oddities as spectators rather than participants, for who would believe a dog spinning yarns of strangeness?

In the haze of eventide, when our owners would return, none the wiser, the ball dropped, and the frisbee fell. The magic, invisible in its hat. We three returned to expected existences: Prescott to his perch, Tigger to his mischief, and I, Corbin, to my tug-of-war triumphs and tasty morsels, my heart pulsed with the beat of the unexplained—our very own Pawsburgh Phenomenon.

So there you have it—stranger, indeed. With ball in tow and belly full of treats, I curled into a tight crescent of contentment, whiskers to warmth, yarn spun, reality woven back to its familiar tapestry. Until the next strange thing, that is.

The End.

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