Hey, just saved Pawsburgh from alien fleas with my plush sidekick and some fierce fur-friends. Turns out I’m not just a regular pup, but a hero with a comb! 🐾✨ We barked, we charged, we conquered. Ellie’s a trooper; we’re both ready for a well-earned nap. – Callie the Flea Slayer 😎🦴

Listen to the story here

I’ll tell you, when the day started, not a whisker on me thought I’d be saving Pawsburgh from an invasion of alien flea-monsters.

It all began on Schnauzer Street where I often trotted, my soft eyes glimmering with the innocence of fresh kibble. The street was humming with four-legged traffic, tails wagging, and noses sniffing in the amiable dance of morning pleasantries.

I was headed to Chowhound’s Chophouse with a particular craving for grilled chicken that would send any self-respecting canine’s salivary glands into overdrive. My elephant toy, fondly nicknamed Ellie, was firmly clenched in the jaws of enterprise, squeaking along as a melody to my jaunt.

But lo, the tranquility fled in a blink, replaced by a whirring that seemed to churn the sky! A massive craft, as bizarre as a cat on a leach, loomed above Vizsla Valley.

“Great schnitzels!” barked Barney, a grand dachshund philosopher of our time. “Sky-squirrels?”

“Nay,” I countered, feeling rather eloquent, “an invasion!”

We stared, aghast, as pearlescent orbs descended. Pawsburgh bristled with alarm; these egg-shaped oddities hopped about, settling on fur, releasing galactic fleas that buzzed like tiny interstellar chainsaws. Chaos ensued.

Our once peaceful refuge, now teeming with extraterrestrial pests, thrummed with a mixture of surprise and a curious desire to scratch. The air filled with cries for help, rivaling the most frenetic moments at Barking BBQ’s bone day buffet.

Bravery, perhaps bolstered by images of grilled chicken rewards, surged within me. With Ellie still in tow, I rallied my friends.

“Gather the brave!” I yapped. “Meet at Pearl Papillon Promenade!”

Upon arrival, the Promenade was teeming with furry freedom fighters, each exchanging a quick sniff of introduction.

“Now listen up,” I barked, “we might just have one shot at this!”

Plans were hatched faster than you say ‘fetch’, inklings of strategy amidst barks, growls, and at least one philosophical musing concerning the nature of existence.

Playing to our strengths, we ransacked Pet Partners Pet Supplies for grooming kits. Scissors and combs became our lances and swords, and Happy Hounds Dog Walking’s leashes turned into makeshift lassos.

Then we charged.

It was the largest game of tag Pawsburgh had ever seen, a multi-species ballet. One by one, fleas were plucked, tossed, and banished back to the unknown void from whence they came.

In the heat of the fray, I galloped through the fray with the elegance of a ballerina – if said ballerina were adept at guerrilla warfare and flea extermination. Ellie, bless her soft, poly-filled heart, was decorated in the spoils of victory with the defeated aliens festooned upon her like medals of honor.

In the aftermath, tails aloft and standing tall as the last of the otherworldly invaders were swept into Schnauzer Street gutters, Pawsburgh exhaled a collective sigh of relief.

Our town would sleep peacefully that night, dreaming of Schnauzer Street without the whirring of foreign engines.

“So,” I said to Barney as we sat licking our wounds outside Spaniel Spaghetti. “What do you suppose the moral of this tail is?”

Barney thought, scratching behind an ear with contemplative fervor. “Perhaps, our greatest foe is the one we can only see with a leap of faith – and a good flea comb.”

We shared a laugh; me, the light brown and white Pitbull savant, and Barney, the low-slung thinker.

As the stars waltzed overhead, I knew that I would cherish the memory of our improbable victory, and that Pawsburgh, even faced with the extraordinary, would always leap back to the heart.

The End.