Hey Mom,

Just a usual Pawsburgh day where your Ponch out-dappered himself. Had to prove my rep isn’t just fluff, so I spun a tail tale to save my pal, Jack, from a hot dog heist and wound up landing us a posh photo op. Now I’m savoring victory with pastries and pals. Who knew loyalty could be this delicious?

Love,
Poncho 🐾🎩✨

Listen to the story here

As I trotted purposefully down the cobblestone street, throw me a bone, would you? I’ve got myself whirling in a tempest of troubles. The sort that not even Poncho the Suave, that’s me, can escape without a wag and a prayer.

Just this sunrise, or I reckon what might’ve been sunrise if one could’ve seen it from Pawsburgh, I ventured through the Topaz Terrier Town, my tail high, spirits higher. But oh, what tangles we weave when first we practice to retrieve… a ball, or in my case, a reputation.

I sidled through Pinscher Plaza, my leash of noble composure keeping me from yapping like a wild thing at every passerby. But it’s the market day in Pawsburgh, sees you. The air was thick with aromas of Paw Pad Thai, the spice tickling my snoot with the siren song of six different curries, and I was tempted, yes, but not moved. Poncho, eyes on the prize, I told myself. Tail untwirled, my heart padded towards Labrador Lunch, because today, dear friend, I was a creature of mission.

There’s a chit-chat that’s been round the hydrants, mind you, clatters about me being not but a pooch of primp and puff. Me! The matter’s simplicity itself, they mistake my elegant coat for frailty of heart. So, I planned a little soiree, a scheme, a shindig of sorts in Newfoundland Nook to show my metal. And what says ‘Poncho is a dog of substance’ better than a speaker of my own subjective experience at Canine Couture Fashion, eh?

The chaps there tailor not only the finest frocks but also the gossip, threading each piece so eloquently yet, I heard, havin’ nattered a loose stitch about your truly. No, an arrangement was due, a clearing of the air over a splendid new collar. But as I glimmered through the racks of raiments, fate bounded in with all the gentleness of a Bullmastiff in a china shop. Jack, the Jack Russell, my yin to my yang, my rash to my reason; Poncho, he squeaked, he had nicked a banger from Dachshund Deli, hot as the grill it came from. And wouldn’t you know, he’d been caught snout to snout with the owner who was threatening to ban the poor blighter from every biscuits bite in Pawsburgh.

Friends, dear reader, they’re the soul’s own chew toy, aren’t they? Comfort in the lonely howl, a paw when you’ve dug yourself a hole too deep. And there I was, betwixt the couture and calamity, my own plan of redemption now tethered to Jack’s.

Prattle and paw, I fashioned a stretch of truths as I stood before that incandescent judge of meat—the Deli owner. Claimed Jack had been on an errand of great import, for a dog of my stature could not possibly traipse into his shop with drool on his chops. No, Jack was to be my valet for the impending showcase, a cover while I slicked my fur and preened my valor.

And would you believe the sheer, doggone luck of it? The owner, as ruffled as a clipped poodle, accepted the story. Not before extracting a promise of a photo session at Best in Show Photography under the guise, of course, of featuring his establishment—a free advert, if you will, smoothed over with a pawshake, wet-nosed and earnest.

So my dear confidant, here I sit in The Woofy Bakery, breaking my fast, not on blueberries, pah!—but on a flaky croissant that’s just like life in Pawsburgh: a little crisp, unexpectedly sweet, and best enjoyed in the company of friends who’ll weather the sniff and scares alongside you. Perhaps this test of loyalty hath added the most vibrant stroke to my canvas yet, sigh, but is it the shade of the responsible pooch I yearn to be? Only time, and perhaps another unsuspecting day in Pawsburgh, will tell.

The End.