Hey Mom,

Crazy day in Pawsburgh! The sun played hooky, skies cried a river, and I led a pack of pooches on a raft rescue mission like Noah’s Bark. 😜 Town’s spirit held up better than a Bulldog’s jaw on a tug toy! Ended the day as a dry, ham-filled hero resting in my bed. Just another walkies in the park for yours truly, Piper the Brave!

Tail wags and doggie kisses,
Piper 🐾✨

Well, I should have known when the sun didn’t bother to clamber all the way up the sky that something was a bit off in Pawsburgh. You see, for a town built on the loyalty and zest of dogs like me, a half-hearted sunrise was as suspect as a cat at a canine jamboree.

I awoke in my dog bed that day more restless than a squirrel in a nut factory. Sensing the brewing mischief, I leaped to my paws and trotted down Whippet Way, my Tough no-filling floppy fox clamped proudly between my teeth. I skipped the pleasantries with the usual morning brigade of pampered poodles at The Doggy Depot and took a shortcut through Akita Alley.

The wind was whispering secrets through the leaves, secrets of a misadventure. It tickled the tufts of my Blue Merle coat as I bounded toward Whippet Way, a thought popping inside my head like a bubble: “Wouldn’t a plate of Rottweiler’s Ribs make a delightful brunch?” But my ham-enamored stomach growled a disappointed “later” as the scent of trouble snatched my attention.

At the edge of Weimaraner Woods, I felt the ground grumble under my paws, like it had swallowed a hive of bees. Just then, over the hills, clouds gathered—ominous and thick like the gravy they serve at Bulldog’s BBQ. And with the subtlety of a pup knocking over a trashcan, the sky broke open, unleashing a downpour that could have put the world’s faucets to shame.

Well, what’s a girl to do? I thought. As the Shetland Sheepdog poster child for valor, I plumbed the depths of my soul for a spark of pluck. Ears back, nose to the sky, I sprinted through the increasingly muddy terrain, rushing towards my favorite sanctuary among the whispering trees.

Disaster doesn’t come calling with an RSVP, so Whimperer Woods, not Weimaraner on that day, offered no solace. Floodwater chased me, nipping at my ankles. My fluffy fox toy, now sodden, seemed a prize less worthy of the effort to keep it afloat.

The drama got knottier when I saw my beloved Pawsburgh pals, ears plastered to their heads and tails drooping like damp flags of surrender. “Come on, chaps!” I barked above the howl of the wind. “This is no time to audition for a Shakespaw tragedy!”

We huddled under Barker’s Bakery awning, watching Mother Nature have herself a proper tantrum. The bakery, famous for its Bil Jac’s grain-free Chicken dog treats (my kryptonite!), was in peril as the waters rose with a voracity that would put the biggest dog at the dinner bowl to shame.

Pawsburgh needed a hero, and I, Piper, with my stubborn streak and snazzy blue coat, decided it was my solo moment on the stage. “We shall not roll over for a bit of rain,” I declared with a dramatic paw uplifted for emphasis. “On towards Fetch! Toys and Treats! They have rafts!”

Mustered by a sense of duty (and perhaps the promise of a post-crisis treat), we moved as one soggy, but spirited pack through the streets, past The Snooty Snout Boutique, where the scent of wet fur mingled with doggie perfume.

We reached the store, commandeered the rafts, and took to the acts of rescue like duck hunting dogs to water. We became an ark of salvation, buoyant upon the rising tides, ferrying our pals to higher grounds.

Call it a disaster, I call it a day where Pawsburgh’s spirit was tested and didn’t flinch, except when the lightning flashed, of course. And as the waters receded, like a mischievous pup slinking off after a caper, we celebrated with a feast at Bulldog’s BBQ, me with extra ham, of course.

Beloved human, it’s now quiet. The storm’s tale is one for Pawsburg lore, and I, Piper, resting in my bed, am but a humble narrator who insists that every wagging tail has its day. Even if, and especially when, the sky decides to fall.

The End.