Hey Mom,

Just had the wildest day in Pawsburgh — turns out it’s more than sniffs and tail-wags around here. Met a ghostly Beagle named Lucinda over some ethereal spaghetti and got caught up in doggie ghost tales. Who knew a bulldog’s heart could race for a spirit? Don’t worry, I’ve still got all four paws on the ground! Canine kisses to you,

Newman aka Fatty McFatterson

Listen to the story here

I sometimes wonder, between those charmingly regular snuffles and snorts, if life could possibly get any better. It’s an idle thought, generally taking place beneath my beloved oak tree friend, where the wind whispers legends and the leaves tell tall tales. That’s when it hit me — well, not the tree itself — the realization that Pawsburgh isn’t your regular canine utopia.

Take last Tuesday. Oh, you didn’t? Well, it’s gone now, but it was a day of the most exceptional peculiarity. It began like any other day — with the stealthy departure from my human’s abode as she dreamt of, I assume, whatever humans dream about. Butterflies made of cotton candy, perhaps? I trotted towards Dachshund Dale, my belly rumbling for the culinary delights that awaited at Poodle’s Pasta since my meals had been quite monotonous lately. Chicken, chicken, and you guessed it — more chicken. A bulldog craves variety!

But as I navigated the cobbled streets under the twinkling canopy of starlight, invisible to the sleeping world of humans above, a spectral tail flicked at the corner of my eye. I froze, every muscle in my rolly-polly frame tensed. I wasn’t alone.

Confronted with what can only be described as a decidedly non-corporeal Beagle, bespectacled, floating, and glowing slightly azure, I did what any self-respecting, chunky English Bulldog would do. I barked. I barked not out of fear, mind you, but out of polite curiosity. The Beagle, who had introduced herself as Lucinda, seemed equally intrigued. A conversation ensued — as best as one can have with a paranormal pooch who answers your every query with howls that echo through the ether.

And then it happened. It was that doleful howl. A howl to make one forget about Brussels sprouts forever. A resonance that plucked at my heartstrings like a gifted poodle pianist. Love, dear reader, in Pawsburgh, cares not for the limits of the physical realm.

But romance was off the menu for now; adventure was served instead. My new spectral sweetheart and I ventured to Snout Snacks, purely for research, you understand. There’s something about sharing a ghostly meatball that truly bonds souls — and don’t even get me started on Pup’s Parfait. They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach; apparently, this transcends the metaphysical boundary as well.

Our escapade led us through Chestnut Cocker Courtyard, across Newfoundland Nook, each place with its own phantasmagorical twist — tales of curses, whispers of a lost collar that granted pups eternal life, a leash that could turn back time. To be honest, it all seemed a bit much until I noticed Lucinda’s ethereal tail wagging with the joy of a thousand belly rubs.

We arrived at The Doggy Depot, where collars shimmered with an otherworldly glow and edible ectoplasm was all the rage. A lively game of “Catch the Phantom Frisbee” broke out, and I, Newman the Magnificent, bounded with feats of athleticism that surprised even myself.

As dawn approached, we knew our time dwindling. I escorted Lucinda back to her haunt in Dachshund Dale, with promises to meet under the light of the Dog Star. As I settled later under my tree, I contemplated how rich life is when you’re open to the improbable.

I closed my eyes, squeezing that beloved squeaky toy, drifting off with the thought of Lucinda’s howl echoing in my soul. Pawsburgh, you’ve done it again. You’ve given this bulldog a paranormal romance to howl about.

The End.

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