Hey Dad,

Just another day in the double life of Oreo, Pawsburgh’s underdog detective. Embarked on a quest to crack the pickle enigma with the gang, faced off with our culinary nemesis, and capped the night with introspective vibes by Shiba Inlet. Verdict? Team Spirit 1, Pickles 0. Jason’s still clueless. More tails of bravery and burgers tomorrow—hold the pickles!

Dreaming in doggo,

Oreo 🐾

Listen to the story here

Ever had the feeling you’re living a double life? By day, I’m Oreo, the humble brindle-coated boxer who enjoys lounging by Jason’s feet. But once the twilight beckons, I’m Pawsburgh’s semi-celebrity, trotting my way into hearts and the occasional mischief in our clandestine doggy utopia.

I’m dictating my latest caper, or as I like to call it, ‘A Tail of Brindle Proportions,’ as I can’t exactly hold a pen. It started as a regular Thursday — or so Jason thought. He left with his usual “Be a good boy, Oreo,” not knowing I had grand plans tucked behind those deep-set, sorrowful eyes of mine.

Once Jason’s car disappeared around the corner, my canine companions and I convened our secret meeting at Hound Heights. You see, we’ve been conspiring to uncover why humans adore something as bizarre as pickles. Timber, my spunkiest pal, insisted they taste like crunchy pond water, and Grandpa Jerry — the wise one — nodded, suggesting it’s a riddle even the best snout couldn’t solve.

Our mission clear, we embarked on a culinary quest. Pawsburgh was our playground, and taste buds our compass. We trotted past Fetch! Toys and Treats, resisting the siren call of rubber squeakers, our eyes set on the Wagging Whisk, a cozy establishment for the discerning pup.

Slipping through the dog flap, I led the charge. The staff knows me there; one wink, and they’re whipping up my usual, no pickles included. At our reserved table, my crew and I scanned the menu, each eager to order yet dreading the inevitable.

“Oreo, are you certain about this?” Timber’s paw trembled as she pointed at the ‘Burger Bonanza.’ “It’s soaked in… it.”

“Face your fears,” I barked back, brimming with feigned confidence. I mean, how bad could it be? Humans munch on them like they’re treats from The Groom Room.

The plates arrived, and we nosed the offending items warily. “On three,” I commanded. “One… two…”

And just then, Pandora’s jar unscrewed. Our taste buds staged a protest, my tongue taking the brunt of the assault. Timber flailed, and Grandpa Jerry looked to the heavens, asking, “Why?”

I pondered as we pushed our plates away, experience engraved into memory. “Perhaps,” I proposed, “it’s not about the pickle, but the thrill of shared repulsion?”

Slinking out in noble defeat, we sought solace at Pup’s Parfait, our tails not quite their usual perky selves. Consolation came in the form of frosty treats and belly rubs from the understanding staff.

Weary from our exploits, Timber, Grandpa Jerry, and I gazed upon Shiba Inlet. You see, this was _the spot._ My spot. The sun shimmered off the water, painting a picture of peace and allowing profound boxer thoughts to flow. In moments like this, the riddles of the world pause, and all that matters is the company of friends and the comfort of the familiar, no pickles required.

As the stars announced the return of our humans, we parted ways — comrades in the ever-amusing perplexity of human tastes. With my “big family” of furry friends, every misadventure becomes a story worth a wag or two.

Jason never suspects a thing; he thinks I’ve been dreaming of running in endless fields. Well, in a way, I have — just with more grilled burgers and fewer pickles.

Ah, Pawsburgh. Our secret tale of yawns and yearnings. Tomorrow, another chapter awaits, claws to the ground and snouts to the wind. Until then, goodnight.

The End.