Hey you, just a heads up from your girl Joie. I turned detective in Pawsburg’s fog last night, guiding a beacon-nosed Rudy to unravel the mystery of Kelpie Keys! Turns out being different isn’t just cool, it’s heroic. Stay tuned for more tails, ’cause this pup’s saga is just getting started. 🐾✨ – Joie

Listen to the story here

So it goes that there I was, Joie, with my auburn coat glistening like the last ember of day, meandering through the alleys of Pawsburg. Listen: Pawsburg’s not like your typical town. Here, the fire hydrants never rust, and the lampposts are marinated in the finest scents. This peculiar place comes alive when humans tuck into their big beds, and so I trod the path to adventure.

Well, last night was when Hound Heights was shrouded in Pea Soup fog – the kind so thick that even a canine with night-vision goggles would end up chasing his own tail. As I sauntered past The Woofy Bakery, my snout danced to the rhythm of sourdough and sweet frosting, but destiny had another plan for tonight.

My usual pack of pals, the animated terrier Tucker and wise Shadow, had something else in mind for an adventure – a jaunt over to Kelpie Keys to sniff out the legend of the Howling Harp Seal. Legends are much like bones – the deeper you dig, the more exciting the marrow.

Our route was as clear as mud, thanks to the fog. We sniffed and scurried, only managing circles around Spaniel Spaghetti, where the scent of basil and oregano hangs heavy like a warm blanket on a cold night. If only my nose glowed red like that Rudolph fellow – Ha!

Just when the wispy white curtain seemed impenetrable, a retching sound reached us; one of the newer breeds in town, a young Golden Retriever kid named Rudy, was out by Eskimo Estuary, kicking up grass in frustration.

“Hey, Joie, you know about things,” young Rudy barked, the glow from his red snoot piercing through the milky twilight.

“Things, schmings,” I replied, “you mean stuff and nonsense? Sure, I’m practically a professor.”

He was upset, poor kid, because all the other pups would sniff at him and say, “Rudy, your nose could stop traffic.” No one thought it handy, not even slightly. See, when you’re a dog, blending in feels like holding your head high at the fire hydrant social.

“What’s the rumpus, Rudy?” I asked with a chortle that I hoped sounded more encouraging than patronizing.

“No one wants to play fetch when you can be spotted a mile away,” he lamented. “On foggy nights like this, they just want to use me as a lighthouse.”

A notion tapped on my noggin just then. I had an angle that might just fix his little red wagon. “Rudy,” I improvised with a boxer’s confidence, “you’ve got the map to the buried bones that none of the rest of us can see right now. Lead the way to Kelpie Keys.”

And lo and behold, Rudy’s glow led us through the cotton-candy fog. Past Beagle Bagels, dodging the smell of poppy seed and onion, and straight to the shore where the Howling Harp Seal was said to bark.

Well, the treasure we found wasn’t what we expected, but that’s another story. Let’s just say it involved a pirate parrot and a cat with an eyepatch running a poker game at The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium.

With the beacon on his beak, Rudy was the hero. The other dogs finally saw past the shine, finding a Rudy who could brave the thickest of fogs.

As night waned and whiskers tired, I realized that the best yarns spun come from the threads of our unique quirks. Back in the arms of my artist, I pondered the simplicity yet profundity of our little expedition. I reckoned it would make a good story.

And as the sun finds its way through the morning drapes, I nuzzle my rubber duck, the guardian of my dreams. And remember that Pawsburg, this town of night whispers and daytime shadows, is as much a place of magic as it is of acceptance. Rudolph might have his song, but here in Pawsburg, we’ve got Rudy, and every dog has its day, glowing nose or not.

So it goes.

The End.