Hey Sarah,

You won’t believe the ruckus today! The sky split and weird green critters invaded. Led the Pawsburgh pack in a toy-tossing, roast chicken-flinging defense. Made peace over a steak dinner. Home safe, guarding dreams again. Our tail’s got more twists than a leash on a lamppost!

Your loyal furball,
Loki ✨🐾

Listen to the story here

Now, I reckon a tale of such a day as that one in Pawsburgh, when the sky ripped open like an old man’s britches, is one fit to curl your whiskers. My name’s Loki; some call me a bulldog of distinction, others, a jester in a dog’s coat, but all know me as a friend to the four-legged folk of this here magical town.

As I lay sprawled out, basking ‘neath the morning rays that spilled through my beloved human Sarah’s window, I was roused not by the usual scent of roast chicken—my fondness for which is as well-known as my disdain for the bitter perfume of citrus—but by a peculiar thrumming that seemed to shake the very ether itself.

Now, lest you think me a hound of exaggeration, I assure you, my friends, this hum was as real as the patch of honor gracing my chest. Whiskers, the squirrel of darting fame, was the first to sound the alarm. “Loki!” he chattered, tail flicking in dire agitation. “The sky! The sky has gone queer!”

By thunder, he wasn’t joshing. I charged, broad-shouldered, to the town center, the Cocker Courtyard, where dogs of all breeds were barking their heads off, lookin’ towards the heavens with their tails quivering. Above us swirled a vortex of otherworldly proportions, as if the great painters of the cosmos had spilled their ethereal inks into the firmament.

Ain’t no two bones about it, those were no earthly visitors slinkin’ out the sky’s rip, but creatures sleek and green as the underbelly of a frog. Their crafts whirred above Doberman Dunes like dragonflies over a summer pond, casting eerie shadows upon the sand.

Now, I’m no spring pup, but I’ve heard tell of invaders in the humans’ moving pictures. I thought of Sarah, singin’ her lullabies, and a fire kindled in my bulldog belly. “No surreptitious sky lurker’s gonna rattle the bones of Pawsburgh, not on my watch,” I declared with the calm of a judge passin’ sentence.

The Great Dane, Duchess, drew up beside me, her stature rivalin’ the trees of Shiba Inlet. “What be the plan?” She asked, her voice as cool as the shade on a hot day.

“Plan?” I queried, smirking through my heavy jowls. “Why, the element of surprise, Duchess. These green galoots won’t be expectin’ a counterstrike from the likes of us.”

We marshaled our forces at Barking Brunch, divvying up the chew toys as if they were muskets and the well-loved soccer balls as cannonballs. Our troops donned the finery of Canine Couture Clothing as armor and posed for a last hurrah at Best in Show Photography. “For Pawsburgh!” we howled as we launched our salvo, a composite of deflated balls, squeaky hedgehogs, and, in a stroke of genius, slices of roast chicken, which I parted with only under duress.

The green interlopers recoiled. Evidently, they hadn’t anticipated flavorsome poultry as part of their welcome committee. They parleyed at Chowhound’s Chophouse, where our most diplomatic cocker spaniel negotiated terms over a bone-in ribeye.

In the end, trust and treaties won the day. Them strange visitors hunkered down to share tales of distant stars, whilst us dogs regaled them with legends of Pawsburgh’s splendor.

As the moon took its rightful place among the night canvas, peace settled down like a welcome blanket. I, Loki, returned to my sunlit abode, heart warmed by the knowledge that, even in the face of the otherworldly, the spirit of adventure and camaraderie amongst dogs remains as unshakeable as the mighty oak.

So heed my tale, my human friends, for the chronicles of Pawsburgh are as wondrous as they come, and the heart of a dog as brave as any hero from yonder speculative yarns.

The End.