Hey Mom,

Just rocked Pawsburgh with our prep for the Pet School Musical—think Broadway with more bark and rain! Managed a solo that would make a cat cheer (I know, right?). Soaked but stoked, we ended up celebrating at Poodle’s Pasta. Got snapped for posterity and now, it’s time to dream of our next showstopper. What a day! 🎶🐾

Snuggles,
Lexi

Right then, there I was, bounding into Pawsburgh with my trusty, slightly deflated tennis ball clasped triumphantly between my jaws. The place was buzzing with anticipation, you could smell it on the wind — or maybe that was just the tantalizing scent wafting from Paw-tisserie, where a batch of something delightful had made decent dogs lose their manners.

I trotted along Lhasa Lane, nodding to shopkeepers setting out their wares. A knowing twinkle lit up the eyes of Pet Partners Pet Supplies’ owner as I passed. Likely, he’d heard the whispers. You see, word had gotten around that some of us had our sights on something more audacious than a nap in the sun or a well-aimed scratch behind the ear.

Pomeranian Park was my destination, and I hopped onto the stage erected in its leafy bounds, a prime spot for rehearsal. The Pet School Musical was upon us, and we—a motley crew of musical mutts—had the high ambition of putting on a show that would leave every tail wagging violently with delight.

I gazed out at my co-stars: Bruno, the Mastiff, our resident percussionist with his deep, rumbling bark that could mimic the bass drum; Pixie, who had the pipes to rival the finest soprano, albeit in a canine key, and Mowgli, though a cat, provided us with an air of bohemian indifference on the saxophone which secretly we all envied.

“So, what’s the first number?” I asked, dropping my ball at my paws.

Bruno lifted a paw thoughtfully. “Thought we’d start with a classic, ‘Woofin’ by the Window.’”

“Capital,” I replied, “I’ve been practising my solo, added a little riff, a bit of jazz pizzazz you know. Goes down a storm, I hear.”

Our practice was in full swing, barks and howls taking on a strange harmony when Pixie, mid-aria, was interrupted by thunder’s ominous prelude. I felt the fur on my back stand, the familiar tingle of dread creeping through my veins. But, amidst the charged air, I found strength in my motley band of troubadours. Shaking off the fear, I turned to the suddenly silent group, “Now, let’s carry on. If we can play through this, we can play through anything.”

And so, we did. The towering storm became our tempestuous backdrop, as if Pawsburgh itself was urging us to greater heights. As the first drops of rain fell, our enthusiasm soared, splashing through the downpour with a vigor that defied the elements.

Later, we found ourselves paw in paw at Poodle’s Pasta, toasting our triumph over bowls of steamy spaghetti and meatballs—no olives, may I add, as I made my disdain for those pungent globes quite clear.

In the post-storm calm, we dined en plein air, certain stars peeking through the clouds. I was about to regale the gang with the tale of my gusty solo when a drawn-out “Click” heralded an interruption as Best in Show Photography’s proprietor emerged.

He gestured grandly, “The very image of courage and camaraderie, you lot! Stand together, for posterity.”

And so, with tummies full, ears perked, and hearts entwined by a shared, unshakable fervor for the art of song (and the comfort of scrumptious food), we leaned in for what would become an iconic snap in Pawsburgh lore.

Indeed, you might have thought such a day as this, all storm and spaghetti, would find its way into one’s nighttime whispers. But back home, as my human mother wrapped her arms around me for bedtime comfort, I, Lexi, thinking of the tuneful heartbeat of my whiskered cohorts, chose instead to dream about the next grand musical adventure that awaited us all in the clandestine conviviality of Pawsburgh.

The End.