Hey Mom and Dad,

Just your regular furball Lokie, reporting in! Tail’s been spinning in Pawsburgh: nailed the bacon bread at Barker’s, charmed a plastic cat, lunched with Fifi, and sailed a doggone boat with pals. All before snoozing back into ‘innocent pup’ mode for your return. The human world’s none the wiser of our four-legged escapades. 😉 Slobbery kisses and tail wags until you two-legged marvels come home! 🐾

Woofs & Winks,
Lokie

Listen to the story here

I’ll tell ‘ya one thing about Pawsburgh – it’s a dog’s dream. And me, Lokie, I’ve nosed my share of adventures, but this particular tale? It’s a waggler.

The morning broke like an egg over easy on a sizzling sidewalk, with my humans dashing out the door, forgetting to restock the bacon. A travesty, I know. Ministering to my growling tummy, I decided I’d consult my pantry at Pawsburgh while they were away.

So, I took the Terrier Tunnel. It’s this secret passage, see – a dimensional dog door, if you will. One might merit a smidgen of skepticism, but trust me, once you’ve chased your tail through this cosmic kennel, Earth’s a yawn.

I arrived at Mastiff Meadows, but then a thought struck me like a squirrel up a tree — the breakfast strips! Emerald Eskimo Estuary hosted a little place called Barker’s Bakery. Known for its bacon bread. And I’m all about backing the bacon.

Through the Meadows, tail on duty, prance in my step, I wriggled my way to the Bakery. “Bonjour, Lokie!” barked Baker Bob, a basset with a flapping tongue accentuated by a captivating droop. “Your usual?” I woofed an affirmative. Have to keep up appearances, right?

With breakfast in belly, I sashayed to The Fetching Feline Emporium – irony and all. Mrs. Mittens, the proprietor, is a cat. A plastic one. I kid you not. She’s got this stare, could curdle your kibble. What can I say? Pawsburgh’s diverse.

“Mornin’ Mrs. Mittens,” I said, giving her my best Terrier charm. No response. Typical cat.

The chime of the door summoned Fifi the French Bulldog. “Lokie, my dear, would you perhaps accompany me to Whippet Wraps for lunch?” I had a standing appointment for naps, but a chap can’t refuse a lady.

So, Whippet Wraps it was. Fifi ordered her poodle noodle bowl. I went for a classic beef burrito – hold the chilies. A Terrier’s tummy has its limits.

As we dined, I mused aloud. “Just think, if humans knew about this place, they’d never have to worry ’bout us being lonesome.”

Fifi snorted, “And spoil our secret? Pawsburgh is the escape from collars and cats.”

I grinned. “Right you are!” I relish my independence, but the comforting cuddle of my humans – well, it’s worth a wag or two.

Post luncheon, adventure beckoned. Pointer Pier, where the salty air smells like dreams and dog biscuits. It was there that I recalled my distaste for swimming. No worries. My paws commandeered a boat, as if my ancestors were sea captains. My circle of confidants, tagging along, enjoyed the safe dry deck.

The day waned, and Pawsburgh knew it. I glanced at my paw watch – a novelty, it tells time in tail wags — nearly time for the humans to return.

I docked the boat, shared goodbyes, and darted back through the Terrier Tunnel. I arrived home to the familiar, snug confines.

As my humans entered, they found me there, the picture of innocence, dreaming of bacon boats and meadows.

“Did you have a good day, Lokie?” Mom asked, head tilted with affection.

I stretched and yawned, the taste of adventure lingering on my jowls.

“Oh, if only you knew,” I barked, but of course, it sounded like nothing more than a loving “woof” to them.

And so my tail — ah, tale, is spun, a patchwork tapestry in the grand design of Pawsburgh lore, the hidden world of the domestic canine adventurer. I’ll see you there tomorrow, perhaps, for another chapter under the whisker-whistling whispers of the Terrier ether.

The End.