Hey, it’s Luna—the tail-wagging, quack-busting, sock-guarding heroine of Pawsburgh. Unraveled a duck-floating spell today. Just the usual magic, mayhem, and munchies. Life’s busy when you’re secretly safeguarding the town on four paws. Wink if you see me adventuring! 🐾🦴 – Lunatic

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So, I’m Luna. And I suppose this is what you might call an ordinary day in Pawsburgh. Not ordinary for you maybe, but for a black Lab with a bit of white on her chest and adventure in her soul, this is the stuff of life.

Mornings in the Watson household are packed with the usual suspects: belly rubs, the siren song of bacon, and the clink of my collar. But once the door clicks shut behind the humans, my day, the real day, begins.

I make my escape through a flap meant for cats—oh, the irony—and trot towards Spitz Spire, where the magic of Pawsburgh pulls at my fur like static. It’s the kind of place where cats give advice, and every alley has a story. I’ve got friends in these streets, and today, like any other, we’ve got places to be.

Max bounds up, with all the energy of a jackhammer in a tennis ball factory, all “Luna! Luna! Did you see the ducks today?” His barking’s loud enough to wake the mythicals, but luckily they’re deep sleepers.

“Not yet, Max. But I suspect they’re up to their usual quacky business,” I reply, my tail thumping a gentle rhythm against my sides. He launches into a story about a squirrel with wings he saw near Spaniel Springs. Typical Max.

We wind our way around Pyrenean Peak – it’s mist-shrouded tail wagging above us, and I catch sight of Whiskers lazing atop a bin behind The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium. “Have you heard,” he begins without opening an eye, “that the hydrants in Pawsburgh are enchanted?”

“A trick for the young ones, Whiskers,” I chide him, though I’m intrigued.

He smirks, his eyes still closed. “Skeptical, Luna. Good. But really, where do you think all the lost collars go?”

Max tilts his head, looking like an algebra problem that’s sprouted fur and four legs. I leave him to puzzle it out and head into Canine Café, where the smells could charm the ornery out of a porcupine.

Muffins the size of tennis balls, though you never play with your food here—that’s rule number one. Carefully, I select a corner booth and settle in, keeping one eye on the door for friends and one on my tattered sock that needs guarding from the mischievous pixies.

By the time I’ve inhaled the bacon delight—the kind of treat that could spark world peace if given the chance—Max bursts in, all panting excitement. “The ducks, Luna! They’ve been enchanted! They’re—”

“Dancing?” I guess, because in Pawsburgh, why not?

“No! They’re floating! Like little feathery balloons!” He’s over the moon, which in Pawsburgh, might be literal sometime soon.

I lick my lips. “Well, it sounds like a proper adventure is in order.”

And it is. Because when we arrive at the pond, the ducks are indeed bobbing above the water, spinning lazy circles in the sky. Whiskers pads over, somehow not smug at all.

“Heard there was a spectacle,” he murmurs. “Seems the hydrants were indeed enchanted. And your ducks caught the spell’s edge.”

I sigh. “Well, I suppose we’d better get them down.”

It takes a chorus of howls, a sprinkling of Catnip (why does Whiskers always carry that?), and an old tale sung in quack to break the spell. And as the ducks descend, I swear they’re wearing tiny smiles on their beaks. They could have floated forever, but the quiet understanding in my soulful eyes tells them they’re safe where they belong.

When I curl up back home, the humans none the wiser, they ask, “How was your day, Luna?” I wag my tail, a silent laugh because they’ll never really know.

Pawsburgh’s secret is safe with me. It’s a dog thing.

The End.