Hey! It’s your main character Rex, aka Sir Sniffs-a-lot, checking in. Conquered The Groom Room’s adventurous ‘Eau de Squirrel’ escapade, barreled through Baxter’s warnings, and teamed up with the night’s brightest feline eyes. Found a squirrely haven beyond Mastiff Meadows and twirled in plush toy nirvana—only to dash back at dawn. Can’t wait to share my tail-wagging tale over a sunrise brew. Paws up until then! 🐾✨ – Rex

Listen to the story here

In the twilight hours of Pawsburgh, when moon whispers to the stars and humans yield to their dreams, magic unfurls its silken cape across the land. Another thrilling night in Pawsburgh lay ahead, stretching its paws after a long sundown.

I’m Rex, your tour guide through the bow-wows and whimsies of our furtive town. So, let me tell you about the time I embarked on an evening thicker with plot than Baxter’s philosophical monologues.

It was at The Groom Room where the adventure took a nose-dive into the extraordinary. “Rex, darling,” trilled the vivacious poodle manning the salon, “I have this new cologne, ‘Eau de Squirrel.’ It’s dashing!” With sparkle in her eye, she spritzed it on without waiting for my bark of consent. Next thing I knew, I was a walking canapé for any canine enchanted by the scent of my peppy plush friend.

As I trotted out, head and tail high but skepticism riding piggyback, I zipped by The Canine Café where Baxter sipped espressos – decaf, of course. “Rex,” he began gravely, “beware the enchanted cologne. It lures more than admirers, I heard…” His words trailed into the steam.

Night was my canvas, so I painted my steps onto Sapphire Schnauzer Street, the scent wafting behind me, a invisible yet irrefutable presence. Lily saluted me as I passed Pooch’s Pub, her expression quizzical. “Rex, there’s something different about you tonight. A certain… je ne sais woof?”

Before I could reply, the bell above The Pooch Playhouse chimed melodically. Out scampered the trio of felines, their whiskers twitching in tune with my aroma. “Rex, we must follow this scent trail,” purred the tabby, her tail a question mark inciting my adventure. I rolled my eyes (an acquired human gesture), yet curiosity tugged my tail.

We advanced through Bichon Boulevard. The moon dipped lower, teasing the rooftops with its silver paintbrush. All was as enchanting as a Sniffer’s Sandwich special, until we reached Mastiff Meadows where the night took a turn for the Woody Allen-esque bizarre.

Before us stood a monumental object, towering as if it touched the very seams of night, a portal vibrating with mirth and mystery. “The stuff of doggie lore,” I heard myself mutter.

“A gateway to the beyond,” whispered the tabby, eyes gleaming with a madness I mildly envied.

With an essence of squirrel trailing us, we stepped through, fear tickling our tails. Suddenly, inside, it was a majestic hall as vast as my repertoire for jerky tricks, lined end-to-end with squirrels. Not living, breathing, tail-flagging ones, but my beloved plush toys, each one more splendid than the one buried in the garden.

I frolicked, twirled, my previous woes discarded like a flea finding a sudden epiphany. This, my friends of night, was my nirvana, a haven scented by comfort and nostalgia. But as the portal back to Pawsburgh shimmered, ready to fade, my heart skipped – a beat surrendering to panic.

One does not simply linger in a dream, I reminded myself.

As we jumped back just as the gateway closed, bashful sunlight poked its nose through clouds. Ah, the resolution to my nocturnal sonnet—with only the brisk citrusy air to tingle my senses.

Safe in Pawsburgh, with my plush squirrel tucked snugly under my arm, I regarded my friends: the wise, the vivacious, the quick, even the feline companions of the night. Could I tell them of my escapade? Why, my dear humans, stories such as these are best shared at sunrise, when the world’s a little more magical and the coffee’s just right.

The End.