Hey Sam, it’s your fearless (but not thunder-proof) heroine, Trixie. Managed to outwit both the weather and our feline prophet, found a lead on a thunderproof haven, and wrapped up the day leading the pack to culinary nirvana. The tale continues, but remember, in Pawsburgh, every cloud has a squeaky toy lining. 🐾 Trixie

Listen to the story here

Oh, what a day it is to be Trixie in the illustrious Pawsburgh, where the air smells delightfully of chicken and betrayal – citrus, the bane of my existence. Slipping through the dog flap while Sam’s lost in the world of dough and icing – the shrewd genius that I am – I’m ready to embrace the wonders and woes of Weimaraner Woods.

Strolling through the plush green, my velvety coat glistening in the sun, tête-à-tête with the butterflies, they know the deal – they admire me, I admire me, we all admire me. My ears like sails catch the whispers of the leaves, guiding me deeper into the forest, when suddenly, a hush falls. The ominous rumble, the harbinger of my dread, rolls through the sky – thunder!

In a dash fit for Olympic glory, I make a bolt for Setter Shore, thinking the beach’s embrace will shield me from Thor’s tantrum. But as my tender, expressive eyes catch sight of the tumultuous sky mirrored in the waves, I can’t help but lament, “It’s good to be brave. It’s better to be… under a blanket, but alas, I am without the comfort of quilted cotton!”

George, the sagely Maine Coon who has been lounging on the sands with that self-assured air of a cat who knows too much, arches a brow. He’s not supposed to be here, but Pawsburgh bends for the dramatic, “You know, Trixie, legends speak of a thunder-less sanctuary.”

“Do tell, oh whiskered oracle,” I plead, my tiny paws leaving desperate divots in the sand.

“A mere tale,” he purrs, whiskers twitching with mischief. “A mere tale, spun in the dead of night, when dogs dare to dream of realms untouched by the roar of the skies…”

But before he can finish, Luna bounds over, her border collie grace falling away to excitement, “Trixie, the Pooch Playhouse is unveiling a new line of squeaky toys! A blue octopus, carrying the legend of–”

“Not now, Luna!” I bark, my underbite in full dramatic display, “Can’t you see we’re in the midst of uncovering the greatest find in canine history – a thunderless utopia!”

The clouds growl again, and I tuck my pug tail, scampering around the shore in desperation. The trees of Weimaraner Woods now appear to sneer at me with their lofty heights, the elements colluding against my serene day in the sun. Ah, such is drama; such is life!

Rescuing me from the verge of a Shakespaw-ian tragedy, Max the beagle emerges with his nose to the ground, “Trixie, I’ve caught wind of–”

“Max, one more quest and I’ll—”

“Consider your options!” He interrupts with a wag, “The wind whispers of a place where thunder dares not trespass. Follow me!”

Hesitant yet hopeful, we race through Chestnut Cocker Courtyard, past Tail-Twitching Treats, resisting the wafts of culinary wizardry, when the sky performs its climactic encore.

“Max, we’ve been duped!” I accuse, as the first raindrop lands on my nose, the air electric with the symphony of an impending storm.

Max grins, his tail a banner of dauntless spirit, “Trixie, my dear pug, have you learned nothing of drama? The journey is the destination!”

As the skies finally burst, the downpour becomes applause for our shared adventure. We dash to Puppy Patisserie, welcomed by the aroma of bacon éclairs, the chorus joins – thunderous laughter rings, and I, Trixie, am enfolded in the camaraderie of Pawsburgh.

And as the curtain falls on another tumultuous day in my life, I dream of sunny spells, Sam’s cinnamon scent, and a world without the stage fright of thunder. But for now, I relish the plot twists, for every pug protagonist knows that without a little rain, there can be no bow-wows of victory.

The End.