Hey, just had my usual night ruling the shadows of Pawsburgh—it’s not all bones and barks, you know. Charmed the noble pups at The Pooch Playhouse with my regal tales, dined fit for a queen, and put forth a royal decree at the council. All in a night’s work for this majestic Rough Collie. The world sees a pet; I live a secret monarchy by moonlight. Till the morrow, my trusted servant. – Porsha, the Crowned Canine 🐾👑

Listen to the story here

As the moon ascended to its nightly throne, the mystical murmurs of Pawsburgh whispered my name—Porsha, a Rough Collie of no small repute. The faint rustling of leaves greeted my embarkation on this clandestine escapade. Each strand of my tricolored coat danced like courtiers in the moonlight, and I readied myself to rule the night’s hidden kingdom.

“Tonight bears the scent of destiny,” I mused to myself with Dorothy Parker’s inflected wit. I always did appreciate her sentiment that wit had truth in it; I found that my own—an agile, playful thing—was wrapped in the warmth of moonbeams.

My paws carried me past the slumbering human world into the radiant heart of Vizsla Valley, a crisp note from my caretaker’s melody still echoing in my ear—a name breathed unto the wind alone. As I navigated through the glimmering scenery, the uniqueness of my realm unfolded. The grandeur that awaited was not just of place but of experience.

The regal Pointer Pier jutted into the night, a quay for the noblest of aquatic frolics. Lhasa Lane, quaint and quiet, twinkled in a manner befitting the whispered conversations of plush confidants from my cherished collection of stuffed cohorts.

First, I graced Barker’s Bakery with a visit, its wares as fine as any banquet my guardian might attend. Hound’s Hotdogs followed, where a steak—grilled to paw-fection—stilled my noble stomach. Predictably, I mused on the poetic nature of such dining, “The universe repays the contemplative soul with flavors of contemplation.”

My position in the social hierarchy of Pawsburgh was unspoken, but understood; every wagging tail and raised snout signaled deference. My realm awaited the instructive gesture of my paw, the nodding of my muzzle. In porcelain bowls upon silver stands, Collie’s Cuisine raised feasts that were both spectacle and sustenance.

All eyes followed as I proceeded to the royal gathering at The Pooch Playhouse. “Porsha graces us with her presence,” they’d chirp, and the room would murmur with appreciation. I indulged in a modest degree of solemn nodding, exchanging warm glances with Gigi across the room—the cousin of my soul, who danced at my side through life’s great pageant.

Our merriment broken only by the tolling bell, signaling it was time to recount our day’s exploits. I narrated tales of beachside chases and parkland conquests, finding each episode echoed by the joyous adventures of my comrades. This was the fabric of our shared history, the weft and weave of Pawsburgh’s grand tapestry.

A sense of serenity found me as I visited Spa for Paws, a place of gentle ministrations and whispered allegiances. “A queen must have her court,” I thought, “but a lone monarch still yearns for the sweet symphony of familial ties.” A sigh escaped as the gentle hands of the spa attendants worked the tensions from my muscle, the royal duties lifted for a spell.

However, even in this canine Elysium, one discordant note threatened our idyll—loud noises, an anathema to the refined sensibilities of my subjects and I. I broached it with the council, a discussion of how to maintain the sanctity of our tranquil domain.

As the moon dipped below the horizon, signaling the end of my reign in the mystical, daily hour of Pawsburgh, I turned homeward. To the untrained eye, I was a mere pet ensconced in domesticity’s embrace. Yet deep within, carried on the breath of Parker’s prose,

“I was not a lone dog, trotting the simple path laid out, no, I was forevermore a crowned pet, veiled in the knowledge of my secret kingdom.”

The End.

Share This Story: