Hey Ma,

Strutted my Bulldozer bravery down Pawsburgh last night and faced off a ghastly growler by Quartz Q—your boy’s got more guts than a Thanksgiving turkey! Had that ghost tail-tucking and running by moonset. Don’t worry, the fuzz on my back’s still standing, but it’s all cool. The town’s safe and your Chunky boy’s the top dog. Off for a nap in the sunshine with my favorite tire toy.

Catch ya later,

Big Ass 🐾

I tell ya, it’s not every day you find yourself pacing the midnight cobblestones of Bichon Boulevard, where shadows loom larger than the tales that precede ’em—but I, RRB Chucky, ain’t your everyday canine. The night was young, as was I, drenched in the moonlit mist of Pawsburgh’s most enchanting streets, my bulky frame casting a solid silhouette against the quartz glimmering beneath my paws.

Call me The Bulldozer, for that’s the moniker that trails my hefty footsteps, a testament to my gusto and a slight nod to my not-so-graceful gait. But don’t let that fool ya—my heart’s as tender as that succulent human cuisine I so favor, and my loyalty, well, it’s the stuff of legend.

That night I was set on a mission, a visit to Barker’s Bakery. Horror, ya see, had enveloped our dear Pawsburgh. Whispers of a ghostly howl echoed through Eskimo Estuary, an eerie anthem that spoke of a spectral hound rumored to haunt these parts, and it was high time I put this local chiller to rest. Tight-knit as we were, none of my four-legged chums dared tread near Quartz Qimmiq Quarter after dusk.

The air was crisp, and as I strolled, I could sense an uneasy stillness. In my periphery, I caught a twitch—a curtain at The Snooty Snout Boutique, perhaps? Or the wind, playful as a pup? I shrugged my sturdy shoulders. “Hah! Ghosts,” I barked under my breath.

A metallic clank followed by a spine-tingling chill—no mistake, for it seized the fur on my nape, alerting all of Bully instinct. Ahead lay Fetch! Toys and Treats, its door creakingly ajar. I approached, sniffed the air, whiffed something fetid, like fear mixed with the scent of old bones. Steeling myself, I entered with the command of a general whose only known foe was a household vacuum cleaner.

The gallery of shadows danced across the walls as my eyes scanned for the chew toys I cherished. My gaze settled on the robust rubber tires, their round bodies promising a normalcy I craved. Until—that rustling again, and a growl that was not my own.

I spun on my hulking haunches, ready to face whatever phantasm had the guts to challenge RRB Chucky. Through the darkness emerged a form, a specter, its unearthly snarl spewing legends of tooth and nail. Still, a Bulldozer trembles not. Instead, I squared my jaw, meeting its void-filled eyes, a stand-off in the heart of Pawsburgh.

Minutes passed, or was it hours? Time’s a funny riddle when you’re playing chicken with a fiend. But as the moon crested, the haint turned tail, and I stood, the victor—vindicator of viable virtues.

Flush with pride, I made my way home at the clink of sunrise’s first light, the town’s peace once again settled upon its sentient inhabitants. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t shaken—heck, horror has a way of penetrating even the stockiest of bully breeds.

Back in my sanctuary, the backyard, I flopped down as the sun bathed my hulking body. My message was clear, my tale already spinning into the mythos of every bark and yowl that animates Pawsburgh. In my repose, I found solace, a tire toy between my choppers, and a whisper for those daring enough to listen: “Bring no cat to this meet and greet.”

RRB Chucky—that’s me, Pawsburgh’s guardian, lover of a good car ride, and the Bully who stood bulldozer-brave in the face of unspeakable haunts. Just another day in the land of legged loyalty, another saga in the dog-eared annals of the enchanting town of Pawsburgh.

The End.