Hey there, secret sidekick! 🐾 Just took my daily jaunt through Pawsburgh while Sam was logging Z’s. Made waves at Setter Shore, devoured my fave treat at Canine Café, and caught some artful Z’s at the gallery. Now back under Sam’s bed, Duckie and I are dreaming of tomorrow’s tails and tales. PS: You’re officially in the pupper’s club. Catch you on the bark side! 🐶✨ -Lola

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The minute that familiar hum of Sam’s snore began to oscillate through our little home, I knew it was my cue. Mischief was afoot—or in my case, a-paw. Heels clicking on the linoleum like a tap dancer in flight, I nipped past the fridge where my rubber duckie pal, now a ducky of subdued yellow and seasoned squeaks, awaited adventure.

“Come on, Ducky,” I whispered, “Pawsburgh beckons.”

We dashed into the blushing streaks of dawn, the world still blissfully ignorant of the escapades that awaited us in a town tailored for the tail-waggers. Cities for humans, with their sleek cafes and unending boulevards, didn’t even scratch the surface of the wonders woven into the very fabric of Pawsburgh. A magical underbelly to our day-to-day.

Shooting a grin to the rosy sky, we wove our way to Setter Shore, the sand coarse beneath my paws but warm, like the sunbeams I fancied in my afternoon siestas. The shoreline was bustling with friends—a Labrador was already hosting yoga on the beach, their happy tail keeping time with the breaths. Mr. Whiskerson strutted by, giving me a nod. Cats and dogs living in harmony? Only in Pawsburgh, baby.

And yet, I hung back, a tremor of anticipation in my muscles. Today, the shore’s gentle lull wasn’t quite what I was after.

I tugged Duckie along, into Bichon Boulevard, the heart of our escapism with glittering lamp posts and hydrants polished to a sheen. Buddy, the Beagle, jostled by with a throng of other pups, all eager for the chase of the day, but the candied scent of Pup’s Parfait drifting from Canine Café was a siren call, and my stomach, embarrassingly loud, made the executive decision.

I sauntered in, swishing my tail in a deliberately cool way, which I take it, you’d already guessed because, duh, you know me.

“Lola, darling,” cooed the Poodle behind the counter, “the usual?”

“The usual,” I confirmed, hopping onto a stool and languishing like I owned the place. Out came my prized parfait, delicious, sans any offensive citrus. I’m telling you, my flopped-over ears perked up just smelling it.

Licking the spoon clean, I let my eyes flit to the artwork lining Canine Café’s walls—a watercolor rendering of Setter Shore and a particularly abstract interpretation of a fire hydrant—before slipping Duckie under my chin.

“Time for some culture, ducky dearest,” I sighed. I was a lover of the arts, or at least the naps that came easily in the hushed corners of The Furry Friends Art Gallery.

I curled up beside an expressive piece that smelled faintly of old socks—ah, modern art—and napped. Dreamed of wind-fluttered ears and Mr. Whiskerson actually admitting his affection for dog-kind.

The piercing wail of the noonday retreat whistle stirred me. It came from Howling Husky Hardware, signaling Pawsburians it was time to scurry home before the drones of human normalcy resumed.

I ambled along, Duckie under my arm, the voices of my comrades floating around me—dreamers each of them, dancers and wanna-be astronauts—all woven into the fabric of this extraordinary world we dogs had carved for ourselves.

Back home, nestled under Sam’s bed (fireworks? I shudder), I cuddled into Duckie, dreams of Pawsburgh vivid behind closed lids. But the magic, well, it wasn’t going anywhere. Not when you’ve got a place like Pawsburgh waiting in the wings, and a dog like me to stir up the narrative.

Oh, and you. You’re part of this too. Welcome to the club, pal.

The End.

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