Hey Mom and Dad,
Just a quick wag of the tail here! I’ve been quite the furry hero lately—helped the Johnson kids find their way home, discovered a squirrel treasure, and even did a little matchmaking at the park (humans, right?). Let’s just say I’ve got more than bones in my backyard now! Give me a scratch behind the ears when you’re back.
Love, Hammer 🐾

You see, it isn’t every day that one finds themselves single-pawed in negotiating the future of Pawsburg against a formidable alien horde. But then, it isn’t every day that Graw4200, or Hammer, as the ladies like to call me during particularly energetic butt-scratch sessions, finds an army of otherworldly miscreants setting foot—or paw, rather—into the Onyx Otterhound Oasis. You can imagine my surprise on that peculiar Tuesday, a day most Sundays aspire to replicate with their leisure.

I was just finishing a particularly satisfying game of fetch with Brooklyn, my comrade and fellow Cane Corso, at the dog park. We’d exhausted our breath with bouts of delightful barking and synchronized airborne lunges after my favorite rubber alligator. The day had been going swimmingly, full of cheese balls and belly rubs planned after, until I heard it—a sound so unfamiliar, it made the terrifying tone of the vacuum seem like a lullaby.

Instantly, I smelled it in the air—pungent, otherworldly, a scent that was neither tug-of-war-friendly nor associated with any bulldog’s BBQ smoke. A line of dogs gathered near the Amber Akita Alley, eyes wide, tails stiff. At the head of the congregation was an oddball of peculiar creatures, green as the lake slime we often mistake for mud pies.

Now, being the owner of the local speakeasy in Pawsburg meant I was no stranger to strange company. Yet, these extraterrestrial guests had an agenda as clear as the whistle that signals bedtime: to colonize Pawsburg with intergalactic kibble copies, outrageously priced and evidently yucky, based on my first sniff.

This was a job for none other than yours truly, Hammer, the only dog intuitive enough to unravel their spacey schemes while keeping a ruffled calm. My keen, intelligent senses could tell this was no usual meet and greet. I mean, even Philly, my departed buddy who loved fetch more than a cat loves cake, would have arched a brow.

“These invaders,” I proclaimed with a chatty nonchalance I didn’t quite feel, “mean no flea baths, and that just won’t do.”

My fellow canines, gripped by loyalty, braced themselves with me, a tactical plan already wagging in my cranial capacity. To deter our unwelcome arrivals, we bombarded them with Terreir Town’s charm, involving them in rough-housing no alien threat could comprehend or counter. Brooklyn made sure they got tastefully tangled in our game of tug-of-war, with the backdrop of Pup’s Parfait echoing our merriment until it blended with the cosmic confusion.

It didn’t take long for them to realize that a battle with us, the mighty Pawsburg populace, was a mission more impossible than catching Dad in his perpetual quest against smelly sock avengers, a feat I must frankly applaud his endurance for. In what can only be defined as the whine of defeat, the extraterrestrial guests retreated, their slime slithering back into the void from which they emerged.

Thus, peace was restored. We dogs fit for walking, fetching, cuddling, and all things splendidly earthy celebrated with a cheese ball feast that double booked with our weekly dance-off in Terrier Town. Poodle’s Pasta provided to-go bowls for the exhausted tail-waggers.

As the evening wore on, illuminated by the moon’s gentle glow, I thought back to the alien invasion we had subsided—a testament to our wonderfully loyal, playful, intelligent, and law-abiding citizen selves.

And so, dear reader, you know not only of Graw4200’s covert speakeasy endeavors but of Loki — your Hammer of Pawsburg. I wonder what wild tale I shall regale my humans with next. After all, there’s always more mischief to be had when you’re a Cane Corso named Loki.