Hey Mom,

Had the wildest adventure in Pawsburg – met a charming ghost dog named Heathcliff at the park, and we’re sort of an item now! Turns out love and frisbees can transcend dimensions. Don’t worry, I’m keeping all four paws on the ground… unless I’m chasing after my ethereal Corgi. 😘🐾

Hugs and tail wags,
BayleeBoo

Listen to the story here

As the first light of dawn crept along the cobblestones of Pawsburg, I parted from slumber’s embrace and made for the mystical veil that separates our worlds. Guided by that itching in my paws that only the promise of uncharted sniffs and the hum of adventure could soothe, I trotted toward Opal Pomeranian Park. The air was crisp, the kind that hinted at secrets veiled beneath the mundane.

Today, however, was far from ordinary.

The park shimmered with a peculiar glow, a whisper of otherworldly charm that tugged at my instincts. That’s when I saw him—a spectral Corgi named Heathcliff, who frequented my dreams more often than I cared to admit. He was ethereal, his legs too short for this world but just perfect for my heart, a canine Casanova who could make me forget the very essence of the frisbee.

“Heathcliff,” I murmured, well-versed in the rituals of ghostly courtship. Yet, his name tasted of longing, a morsel more substantial than Collie’s Cuisine’s finest chicken stew.

“Bayley,” his voice like the last biscuit, impossible to resist. He floated across the meadow, moving through the willows as if their bending was a courtesy to his passage. “Fancy chasing after winds of change rather than squirrels with me today?”

My ear flopped in approval, my heart a discordant drum of delight. We sauntered through Cocker Courtyard, its statues an homage to the noblest snouts, admiring each tale etched in stone. Then we fetched fanciful concoctions from Pup’s Parfait—ghostly flavors for him, chicken for me.

Our journey led us to The Fetching Feline Emporium, where whimsies of cat-dog harmony adorned every nook. Queenie, true to her feline duplicity, nodded from the shadows, her eyes like saucers of milk, full of silent blessings.

I told Heathcliff of Max and Jasper, how they would have barked to the high heavens about this tryst with the unknown. His tail wagged in a rhythm only seen in dreams, or perhaps, in the dimension he hailed from, where every wag was a sonata.

“Aren’t you afraid?” he asked, his eyes like the twin moons of Pawsburg, holding enchantments and treat-filled craters.

“Fear,” I confessed, “is merely the anticipation of life’s fetches without the thrill of the chase. And I am no timid pup hidden beneath the porch.”

We walked, paws over plane, through the heart of our town, where streets had known countless chases, but none quite like this. Love, I realized, was the intangible tug at the heartstrings, the sudden urge to share one’s favorite, well-gnawed frisbee.

As twilight beckoned us back to the boundary, to the line marking realms of tangible and apparitions, Heathcliff’s form waned. “Will I see you again?” I asked, each word a pup’s yelp of yearning.

“Look for me under the willow,” he said, his outline fading like mist in the morning sun. “For there, the veil is thin, and my heart is thickest.”

A spectral kiss brushed my snout, and he was gone.

I awoke under the ancient willow, its branches swaying—not from the wind, but from the remnants of a visitation. The light danced upon the surface of the pond, as though applauding the night’s ghostly romance.

Each visit to that willow became a date with the supernatural, with Heathcliff, my incorporeal beau. I retained my love for chasing squirrels, my loyalty to my friends, my dislike for green beans, but there, beneath the willow’s sweeping branches, I had found a new favorite thing. For the heart, just like a trusty frisbee, knows no bounds—not even those of worlds.

The End.