Hey Dad,

Epic day in Dograssic Park where history’s unleashed and I turned hero! Fence failure let ancient pups roam Pawsburgh, but I channeled my inner Lassie, herded ’em with cheese’s allure, and saved the day! Call it Hank’s Historic Hound Round-up. Tails are waggin’ and so’s my story. 😉

Catch you later,
Bubba

So it goes, in the ever-sprawling magic of Pawsburgh, that I found myself trotting down the cobbled stones of Bichon Boulevard, my paws itching with that familiar restlessness. I, Hank, whose white and brown speckled coat marks me as the sun-kissed vagabond of these parts, had caught a sniff, a whisper on the wind, of something extraordinary—a place where the air smelled of wonder and kibble: Dograssic Park.

Today was like any other day until it wasn’t. You could say that about most days if you were into saying meaningless things. Listen: a park had sprung up, the sort of place where ancient breeds, long buried in the bones of time, now roamed with new twitches in their tails, reconstructed from bits and tricks that smelled like science and tasted like mystery. Pointer Pier, standing defiant at the edge of Pawsburgh, was abuzz with the news.

The humans, of course, were oblivious, sucked into their humming boxes and screens. But it suited me. Obedience, I’d play that game, yet, the chase for something more has always curled tightly within me, ready to spring.

I arrived at the gates, my badge of curiosity polished to a blinding shine. The gates moaned open, revealing titans I had only dreamt of, my dreams being quite educated. There was the Dire Poodle—its coat a cascading sea of curls, making the myths seem like whispers—and the Beagleosaurus, with ears that practically dusted the freshly churned dirt of Diamond Doberman Dunes.

I roamed, the sole visitor in this resurrected carnival of canine yore, my heart a rhythm of awe. “What a lark!” I thought. “What a plunge!” Now, Vonnegut might’ve said that we’re all just “bugs in amber.” Maybe so, but at that moment, I was a time-traveler, outrunning the immutable tick of the mundane.

I sparred in jest with a Mastodane, playfully, for inside the confines of Dograssic Park, our primal dances were but shadows on the wall, retelling old tales with new mouths. But trouble, like cats on yard patrol, was never far away. And for me? Trouble always had a scent.

It began with the growls, the sort not found in the throats of your garden-variety toy bin creatures or the Pawsome Pet Pharmacy clerks dispensing treats with practiced joy. This was a guttural symphony straight from the tombs of time.

The fences, the only thing thinner than our present grasp on the situation, flickered—a stutter in the heartbeat of modernity. The parrots (yes, there were parrots in Pawsburgh; go figure!) squawked, “Glitch! Glitch!”

The Dire Poodles were first, their coiffed curls bouncing with newfound freedom. I watched, fascinated and terrified, as they pranced over the fences like acrobats in a cosmic joke written long ago. The growls became a chorus—a calling for all to join in on the grand escape.

It was then that my loyalty—curled and leashed within—snapped free. The park needed a hero, and whether by devotion or the thrill of the chase, I accepted the call.

“I must go to Chowhound’s Chophouse,” I barked to no one and everyone, “for cheese possesses a magnetism that can unite all manner of beast!”

In the riotous tangle of liberation, my four legs found purpose. Up Pooch’s Pub and down Bichon Boulevard I ran, my narrative as alive as the wind teasing my ears. I rallied the beasts, the ancient and the modern, with the promise of cheese—and composure—for the quake in our world would not be quelled by fear, but by the gathering of the pack.

And as the fences rose again, and the parrots settled into a quiet critique of the follies of dreamers, I sat down, exhausted, a tail wagging and a story spun. For in Pawsburgh, even when the past comes barking, it is the now we chew, always with an eye on the endless horizon of adventure.

The End.