Hey hooman! 🐾 Just returned from whirlwind time travels – I was a Roman celeb and a knight among jesters! Our Pawsburgh is more magical than you’d believe. Missed you more than a steak though. Cuddle up for storytime? 🐕‍🦺✨ – Your chronically adventurous Duo 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

In the magical realm of Pawsburgh, where days are framed by the joyful bounds of dogs, I, Duo, faithfully keep the chronicles of my adventures. And so it began, one ordinary afternoon—ordinary, except that the sun had that peculiar glint you’d mistake for a wink from an old friend. That’s when I knew mischief was bound to unfold.

I stood, with my brindle coat shimmering in the sunlight, underneath the great oak’s sprawling limbs at the edge of Setter Shore. My human, bless his heroic heart, was out, likely reminiscing over his fire-fighting days, while I contemplated the vastness of the estuary. But it was not to be a day of quiet reflection. No, for today the waters rippled with curious promise.

There stood the Whippet Wraps stand, the savory scent of chicken and rice wrapping itself around the air like the finest silk. Salivating at the thought, yet ever so aware of my disdain for the blasphemous banana they often paired their wraps with, I moved on. My attention was caught by a rather peculiar sight—a dogbow-touched booth, flickering like a flame kissed by an errant breeze.

Bob, the mischievous Jack Russell from Briard Bridge, thumped his tail, his eyes wide with the prospect of an escapade. “Duo, old sport, what say ye to a gallivant beyond the hands of the clock?”

I should have known Bob would be the harbinger of such gleeful anarchy. The Great Dane, whose wisdom usually tamed Bob’s wilder schemes, nodded his grey head in what I assumed was approval. A time-traveling booth at our disposal, our very own TARDIS camouflaged in the whimsy of Pawsburgh’s charm, beckoned.

We trotted inside, the wily terrier and I, followed by the sauntering Dane. The booth smelled new, like a puppy, and ancient, like the Serengeti under a crescent moon. The panel lit up with a buffet of buttons and levers, inviting the touch of paw and snout.

“Where to?” Bob’s eyes flashed with the exuberance of a dog who’s found a bone in an unexpected place.

I sniffed at the controls, selecting at random; my spirit craved adventure, not coordinates. The booth lurched, and time folded like a napkin at Pawprint Pizzeria. Outside, the world melted and swirled like an overturned can of collie paint, colors smearing into a whirl of epochs.

We emerged in ancient Rome, the scent of imperial feasts drawing our noses to the banquet. The humans, adorned in white and wreaths, marveled at us—time-straying canines—as we strutted through the forum. Ah, to be a shepherd amongst these old souls! They offered us treats, meats, and applause. No bananas here, I thought with delight, and indulged in a bacchanal befitting my breed.

Then came a bounce to a time of castles and knights, where my poise was mistaken for nobility. I was knighted by a queen and jested by jokers. Bob yipped at jesters and the Great Dane lent his stately shadow to the gallant halls.

But as the sun began its descent in Pawsburgh, and the shadows danced their usual evening tarantella across my fur, I yearned for that cozy red-brick house and the warmth of my human’s presence.

“We must return,” I barked, more command than request. The return button glowed, sympathizing with my homesickness.

And just as the booth had spirited us away, it cradled us back to the present, just as dinner was being served. Home. My human’s joy at my return, oblivious to our timeless caper, was the best treat of all, even better than the lamb bites he dished into my bowl.

Yes, the tales I could tell him, but a dog’s secrets are best kept within the silent wag of a contented tail. And so here I must pause, dear reader, until the next tail… er, tale.

The End.