Hey there! It’s Molly (and Teddy wrapped into one). Quick update: I’m the furball who inadvertently became Earth’s ambassador during an alien pit stop today. Shared pizza thoughts, chewed on cosmic snacks, played tour guide by the old oak and lived to wag the tail. Pawsburgh just got a whole lot more interesting. Keep an eye on the stars for me, will ya? 🐾👽✨

Signing off,
Molly-TBear

Hey there, it’s me, Molly and Teddy. You know, the Teddy bear-Mini Golden Doodle mix with the kind of fur that makes those artsy types want to break out their paintbrushes. Usual day in Earth Town for this dashing canine, except for, you know, the alien invasion.

So just yesterday, I’m trotting over to Pinscher Plaza—if Pawsburgh had a Times Square, this would be it—minding my own fluffy business. There’s word of some commotion down at Bichon Boulevard, something about mysterious lights and a weird humming that’s got even the squirrels laying low.

I’m going, “Aliens? Here? Well, they clearly haven’t had a Pawprint Pizzeria slice yet.” ‘Cause, really, intergalactic travelers have no business causing an uproar on an empty stomach. But you know, priorities—I figure a hot slice of pepperoni might give me a strategic edge.

Then, who do I spy with my little eye? Jasper, the dachshund with an overbite that could open a can of dog food—solo. “Molly and Teddy,” he barks, all out of breath. “The aliens have landed at Harrier Harbor!” And it’s a full-on gab about big tentacled shadows and space gizmos, stuff that would make that Great Dane of ours finally lift an eyebrow.

Let me tell you, nothing breaks up the monotony of chasing never-gonna-get-’em squirrels like a bona fide alien encounter. Silver linings and all that jazz.

On my way to the Harbor, I swing by Rottweiler’s Ribs because—hello?—alien invasion on an empty stomach is a no-go. As the tang of barbecue dances in my mouth, I’m thinking, “Roasted chicken could’ve lured me from the dream where I’m elected Mayor of Squeaky Toy Mountain, but the interstellar smackdown?”

So I hightail it down to the Harbor, and wouldn’t you know it, I find Beagle royalty and a bunch of mutts staring skywards like they lost a ball up in the clouds. The sky, a canvas of purples and greens with ships that look like flying fish tanks. I muse, “Well, that’s new.”

Just as I’m about to suggest we all play dead until they scram, an alien—go figure—comes sauntering down from their ship. It looks like a chew toy I once had, but more… tentacle-y? Outrageous, right?

But get this, instead of zapping us with a pew-pew ray gun, it hands out what I can only describe as intergalactic dog treats. And before you can say “But is it gluten-free?” every pup’s gobbling like it’s Thanksgiving at Grandma’s.

As the space squid tells us they’re just passing by—stars as their guide and blah, blah, blah—I snatch one of the treats. It’s a gamble, but when has that ever stopped me? Spoiler: it tastes like clouds and happiness.

“Hey, Earth-Muffins, just doing a pit stop,” the alien warbles, its voice all static-y like a radio with hiccups. “Need to rest the old hyperdrive, and uh, fancy watering hole you got.”

The park’s by the old oak tree starts calling my name, the one place that recharges my soul batteries. I lead the way, alien crew and doggo parade behind. Tentacles might be trouble when playing fetch, but that’s a bridge to cross later.

We spend the day swapping stories. The alien’s tale about the Squirrel Nebula gets all the attention, and I know it’s not about catching but understanding.

As sun sets, they leave with wagging tails—well, whatever they wag—and we’re left with memories and a sense of “Did that just happen?”

You know, if you’d told me this morning I’d end the day as the unofficial Earth ambassador to an alien entourage, I’d have peed on your leg and called you crazy. But hey, that’s Pawsburgh for you—where the unbelievable just means you’re paying attention.

The End.

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