Hey there,

Just your friendly neighborhood storyteller, Rusty! I’m just blazin’ trails and chasin’ tails over here in Pawsburg. Living the dream between bone gnawing and enjoying Mrs. Roper’s divine chicken stew, and really trying to figure out this wide, wonderful wagging world. It’s about more than fetch and steak—maybe it’s all about becoming a better me. Until then, let’s seize the day, one park nap at a time.

Catch you later,
Rusty

Listen to the story here

Some call it heaven. Some call it paradise—I call it Pawsburgh. There’s Setter Shore, abuzz with saltwater buffs. Newfoundland Nook, where the snow lovers huddle together. And don’t dare miss the frosty splendor of Eskimo Estuary. But me? You’ll find me in the shade of that blossomed tree at Pawsburg Central Park reminiscing over everything. It’s where I am, it’s where I’ve been, it’s… me.

My name? Rusty. I’m not your typical rubber-chasing puppy. Fetching balls, gnawing squeaky toys—too indiscreet for my tastes. Now a good ole’ bone, there’s life’s finest joy. It’s a symphony of sensations, from the archaic scent reminding me of the wild to the savory marrow—an acquired taste, I admit.

Life teems with such pleasant surprises, like the warm, homecooked chicken stew from that delightful old lady, Mrs. Roper. Those succulent chunks swimming in the rich gravy feed not just my stomach, but also my soul. And nay, not spinach. Blame Popeye for creating this false aura around the leafy atrocity. I’d rather snuggle in a patch of nettles than let that veggie detest stain my platter.

It’s not like I have it all figured out, mind you. I sometimes wonder—what’s it all about? Chasing your tail, fetching bones, Abe Lincoln—what’s the big picture?

Take Max, the Labrador, son of the energetic Labrador school. He’d play catch all day, every day, each fetch a rapturous victory. Or Bella, a little hurricane in an ever-so-compact Chihuahua package—feisty as they come, unyielding, unbendable. They don’t ponder, they don’t brood. They live every moment with the vitality of ten puppies high on treats. Their joy is contagious, even for an old hound like me.

Sometimes, coming over to Pawsburg feels like reincarnation—like another shot at life after a long nap. You pop over, play, eat, then snooze. But every snooze fittingly prepares you for another rollicking barter between sleep and life. It feels like an endless cycle—like that time I dropped my bone and it rolled downhill for what seemed an eternity.

I’ve begun to ponder – isn’t it all about overcoming, not the squeaks and the balls, but our inner qualms? Acknowledging our fears, challenging them, and sometimes learning to live with them? Is it about loving the chicken stew but reserving a soft corner for spinach in your heart, just for its dogged effort to please?

I see hints of longing in Max’s eyes when the sun sinks beyond Setter Shore, and Bella loses her spark when the final day-glow fades into a moonlit Pawsburg. Isn’t it about holding onto those moments of pure, distilled happiness, and prepping ourselves for the moonrise peeping around the corner?

If old Rusty can grasp this restlessness, this undying hunger for uncharted horizons of understanding, then maybe—maybe, I’ve got a piece of the puzzle that makes a good dog’s life. Maybe, just maybe, it’s me trying to be… well, a better ‘me’ in this afterworld canine borough we lovingly refer to as Pawsburg. Just maybe. Only time–and a plentiful bone supply–will tell.

The End.

Share This Story: