Hey fam! 🐾✨ Just your intergalactic pup, Russell (a.k.a Bebesito), reporting in from the Milky Bone Way. I’ve been nailing my role as the Tail-wagger of Rottweiler Ridge, piloting The Salivating Satellite past chewable asteroids to dock in Pawsburg. Got my paws on some “Out-of-this-world Ribs” at Rottweiler’s Ribs—no greens, of course! It’s the bond over bone-shaped water bowls that truly makes this space saga epic. Can’t wait to tell you all about my cosmic quests and belly rubs enjoyed in the great expanse. 🚀🍖👽 Sniffs and wags, Bebesito.

Listen to the story here

In the quilt of stars that swathes the cosmos, there’s a space lane known among my canine compatriots as the Milky Bone Way. It leads to Pawsburg’s best kept secret, a place beyond the kibble-coated picket fences, where tales of interstellar splendor unfold. My name is Russell, the brindle-coated English Bulldog with a penchant for adventure, and this, my human friend, is the tell of how I came to be the Tail-wagger of Rottweiler Ridge.

Through the dog door of perception, I leapt into the cool rhapsody of night, my destination: Lhasa Lane, where my spacecraft, The Salivating Satellite, was docked. There’s a rhythm to the silence of space – it hums, much like the sound of an excited whine when you tell me, “Walkies!” And there I floated, my vessel coasting on solar winds, the patch of grass under the old oak tree an anchor in my heart.

I navigated past the asteroid belts where space hounds test their mettle, chewing on space rocks – a pastime, I’ll confess, not for my sophisticated tastes. As the Satellite approached Blue Basenji Bay, the control panel beeped with the familiarity of my squeaky toy. I placed my paw decisively upon the joystick.

“Russell to Blue Basenji, do you copy? I repeat, this is Captain Russell, requesting landing coordinates.”

The response, a bark so crisp and clear, it could cut through even the deepest vacuum of space. It was the voice of Sheba, guardian of the bay and Beagle beyond compare.

“Roger that, Salivating Satellite. You are clear for landing at dock 42. The Rottweiler’s Ribs special is ‘Out-of-this-world Ribs’. Enjoy, Captain.”

With a chuckle that rumbled through my jowls, I thanked her and initiated the docking sequence. I reminisced about the life back home, the subtle interplay of light through leaves, chicken succulence unparalleled—though I heard through the spacevine that Rottweiler’s Ribs offered a dish with flavor galaxies away from my humble chew toys.

The bay loomed large, a hub of trade and camaraderie, docking ports aligned like teeth in a comb. I passed the Spa for Paws, where pooches partook in zero-gravity fur fluffing, and The Groom Room where astro-bulldogs were buffed to a high sheen.

Upon disembarking the Satellite, I felt the gravitation pull of merriment and the culinary magnetism of Rottweiler’s Ribs. I made my trajectory there without delay. Inside, the atmosphere was rich with the scent of barbeque sauce and the murmur of spacefarers swapping tails of cosmic adventure.

I placed my order, specifying “No greens, please, they trouble the warp engines,” which elicited laughter from the surrounding tables. Yet, as delectable as the ribs were, it wasn’t the food that anchored my heart in this interstellar town of Pawsburg. It was the connection, the fellowship shared over bone-shaped water bowls, the shared understanding that every dog, whether from Earth or Canis Major, seeks the warmth of companionship.

As my adventure in Pawsburg led me back to the Satellite, I pondered over the expanse that twinkled above and below. I may be Russell, the earthbound brindle bulldog by day, but by night, I am Captain Russell, whisker-first discoverer of Pawsburg’s extraterrestrial chapters. It reminded me—our stories, your stories, they’re cosmic, knitted in the constellations, ceremoniously barked into the void, where they remain, tales as infinite as the stars themselves.

The End.