Hey human,

Just saved Pawsburgh from spooky specters by being my adorable, joy-spreading self. Dogs are wagging tails again and ghosts are history! Call me Arthur, Ghost-Tail-Wagger 🐾😎

Catch you for cuddles later!

– Arthur

Listen to the story here

As I, Arthur, a Bichon of not insignificant charm, languished in the sun-soaked corner of our park, a sudden gust whisked my thoughts away to Pawsburgh, the clandestine canine Shangri-La that shimmered just behind the veil of the ordinary. If I could describe Pawsburgh, I’d say imagine a fire hydrant that’s always fresh – that’s our town.

Today’s jaunt was prompted, as happenstance would have it, by a whisper of an adventure on the wind, one I couldn’t but help tilt my head at. There’s always something about those faint murmurs that tugs irresistibly on the leashes of my curiosity. A supernatural stir was afoot, and my fluffy, cloud-like paws were destined to unravel its twist.

I found myself first at Ruby Rottweiler Ridge, the sun setting into the horizon, casting a golden hue that could put my favorite chunks of watermelon to shame. At least, I assumed the sun sets here; there’s an ongoing debate among the locals whether or not it’s just one of the Bloodhound’s flashlight games gone too far.

I encountered Bella, her greyhound silhouette slicing through the mystical twilight. “Arthur, have you heard?” she inquired, her voice the canine equivalent of cool jazz on a hot night.

“Heard what? Bella, I’m as in the dark here as a cat in a dog park,” I replied, my dark eyes glinting.

“Rumors, dear Arthur. Of phantasms haunting Spaniel Springs,” she said, her tone dipped in the gossip of otherworldly sort.

Phantasms, eh? Must be Tuesday.

There I went, to the famed Spaniel Springs, where the water was alleged to have the power to show you your future. Personally, every time I looked, all I saw was the reflection of a rather dapper dog—much to my satisfaction.

The Springs were silent save for the murmur of ripples. No sign of phantasms—not that I was particularly eager. I’m about as good with ghosts as I am with thunder, which is to say, I’d prefer they both kept their distance.

But then, the waters churned, and I swear on my stuffed hedgehog, a translucent figure rose. Now, I’m not equipped for ghastly apparitions—I mean, I find bell peppers unnerving.

“Arthur,” the specter called out, with a tone as hollow as a collar without a tag. “Your town needs you.”

The last time a situation called for me, Toby had managed to tie himself to a fire hydrant during an overly zealous game of tug-of-war. “All right,” I said, resigned. “What’s the trouble?”

“In each realm, a balance must be struck. Pawsburgh’s joy is waning. Doggy dreams are the town’s life-force, and fear has rooted in dreams,” the spirit explained, its vague warnings trailing off like a mist in the morning sun.

“Fear?” I pondered aloud, thinking of my own dismay beneath a bed during a thunderous serenade.

“Yes, Arthur,” the figure insisted. “You must inspire hearts with joy, dispel the dread that lingers. Pawsburgh depends on you.”

And just like that, the ghostly visage was gone, leaving me with my reflections—both metaphysical and literal.

So, I embarked on a mission—long story short—to sprinkle joy like a perpetual game of fetch across the town. From Retriever’s Restaurant, where I recounted tales of belly rubs by Jamie—to Chihuahua’s Chimichangas, laughing over slobbery escapades—I charmed and cajoled my fellow canines.

By passing on the stories of my human’s affection, and the jubilance of children’s laughter among dandelions, their spirits lifted. My infectious gaiety rekindled the sparkle in Pawsburgh, and the supernatural snarl was vanquished.

Astoundingly, I’d become more than the king of my realm—I’d become the keeper of canine contentment. And still, I was home in time for dinner—well, watermelon, but certainly not bell peppers. I mean, let’s not get carried away.

The End.