Hey Amelia,

Just landed in mythical Pawsburgh as the stealthy, fence-leaping canine protagonist. Guarding the realm with Sir Chomps-a-lot in tow, climbing towers, and outsmarting Cattail Alley’s craftiest. I’m weaving moonlit tales with my furred comrades, living the legend before I curl back up on my cloud bed at home. Sweet dreams till I return with our tales of adventure. 🐾

-Taleswagger Trev

Listen to the story here

Ever have one of those nights when you’re lying on your custom-made dog bed—the one that Amelia insisted on, saying every hero deserves to rest his limbs on a cloud—and suddenly, the moon whispers a secret? It tells you that beyond the picket fence, within the folds of dreaming shadows, there’s a place called Pawsburgh.

So there I was, Sir Chomps-a-lot firmly clenched in my jaws, leaping out the window into a brisk wind that smelt of adventure—and maybe just a dash of grilled chicken. No time for farewells; the moon’s beckoning can’t be ignored. As I tread softly past the slumbering houses, each step becomes lighter until I’m running, feeling the zestful pulse of Pawsburgh pulling me faster.

Passing Hound Heights, where the stout little cottages looked like they were cobbled together by a baker with a passion for gingerbread, I can’t help but laugh thinking how Baxter would love these Tudor roofs—so chic, so him. Through Harrier Harbor, where rowdy pirate tales of tail-chasing heroes echo across the salty air, I imagine Luna, head cocked, ears perked, ready to follow any scent to the ends of the earth. Or at least to the next port.

Now, I make my way to Spitz Spire, the very heart of Pawsburgh. It towers toward the stars like an ancient bone, all grand and impressive. I can’t help but think, “If this tail could talk.” Standing there, in front of the grand gateway, a thought springs to mind. How often have we heard the tale of Rapunzel? But who’s to say a German Shepherd—with a coat of mahogany and sand and a talent for a good morning jog—couldn’t climb a tower with as much deftness as any prince?

A scruffy, one-eyed mutt called Whisper guards the gate, his most important task ensuring no tail here ever stops wagging. I slip him my blue dragon, now a lumpy symbol of my valor, and he nods with approval; in Pawsburgh, a toy is a passport, a story, a promise.

“Welcome back, Trevor,” he growls out the corner of his mouth, eyes sparkling with a secret, as he opens the gate.

The cobblestone streets lead me to Canine Cafe, the memory of creamy peanut butter lingering on my tongue. There’s the rich, savory scents wafting out—the kind not even Amelia’s Sunday best can rival. It’s here I find my crew, gathered round a wrought iron table, tales wagging, eyes shining under the lantern light.

Baxter, that dapper connoisseur, debates with the waitress over the vintage of their water bowl selection. Luna’s recounting her latest narrow escape, something about a garden gnome and a misplaced bone. She winks at me as I approach, her story ending just in time to include me in the escapades.

“Trevor, there you stand like a prince among pups,” Baxter quips with a canine brand of sarcasm only a poodle could muster. “We’ve a mission, my friend.”

A mission, they say? Well now, that suits me just fine, for adventure stirs my soul like a good jog with Amelia. And so, in the depths of Pawsburgh, our tale unfolds—a narrative embroidered with breathless chases, unlikely friendships, and perhaps, our own twist on saving the damsel. Only in our version, she’s less damsel and more a scrappy terrier with a taste for trouble.

Whether I’m climbing the Spitz Spire to rescue our spirited friend, or outwitting the sly cats of Cattail Alley with the cunning only a faithful German Shepherd possesses, the stories we weave under the moon’s knowing gaze are our own. And what’s a fairy tale for, if not for making stories of our own?

One thing’s certain as we sit there, laughing under the stars, I’ll dutifully take these tales back to Amelia. For in her eyes, as she listens and smiles, we are all valiant, all legendary, and every dog—whether from Pawsburgh or a red-brick suburban home—is, indeed, a fairy-tale hero.

The End.