Hey Mom,

Just a typical Tuesday in Pawsburgh – saved an alien, turned a close encounter into a block party, and taught the cosmos about canine camaraderie (and pig ears). Paige and I are quite the duo! Rest easy, E.T.’s got nothing on your son, the interstellar diplomat.

Wags and woofs,
Gabriel 🐾✨🚀

In the canine cosmos that is Pawsburgh, where the squeaky toys never lose their sound and the hydrants are always prime real estate, I prowl. Name’s Gabriel, black and rust, all Doberman, and no, I don’t do autographs – I’m much too humble for that.

So, it’s a usual Tuesday night, or what you’d call usual if you weren’t from a town where getting your tail caught in a quantum vortex is just another item on the local news. I’m cruising through Diamond Doberman Dunes, shaking the sand from my paws, the moon casting an eerie glow. There’s a charm to the evening silence, punctuated only by the distant chatter from Bark-n-Bite Bistro. I’m not alone, though; my shadow, the spunky Paige, a Chiweenie with enough moxie to make a Mastiff mind his manners, trots alongside me.

“Gabriel, you smell that?” Paige cocks her head, sniffing the air. I take a whiff. It’s like pig ears wrapped in mystery. But here in Pawsburgh, even the scents can be deceiving.

We meander past The Wagging Tail Bookstore, normally a hub for dog-eared page-turners, now quiet as a mouse – if mice ever kept quiet. My fur bristles. There’s something in the air tonight, and it’s not the usual eau de wet dog.

Thump. Thump. Behind us, the sound sends a shockwave through my tail. We whip around, only to see a shadow dart behind the Barking Boutique. Now, I’ve had my share of adventures – why, just last week, I outfought a rogue vacuum bot, you know, the kind that thinks it can waltz into your urban sprawl and spread havoc. But this, this had a different bark to it.

Paige growls, a tiny engine of courage, but I signal her to ease up. “Stay behind me,” I mutter. Loyal, they call me. I figure now’s a good time to earn that title.

We approach the corner, my ears tuned sharper than the finest steak knife at Corgi’s Crepes. What we find, however, is not what I expect. There, shivering in the moonlight, is the most curious creature – fur like frosted silver, eyes big as saucers, and antennae twitching with the rhythm of an anxious waltz.

It’s no dog from Pawsburgh, that much is paws-down certain.

“You… uh, lost?” I ask.

The creature lets out a series of barks and yips, a dialect I’m not well-versed in, but the universal language of needing help? Clear as a bell.

“Gabriel, we can’t leave it here,” Paige insists, doing her best impression of my conscience. She’s right. We’re dogs of Pawsburgh – we stick our snouts where they belong, and that’s right in the middle of each other’s trouble.

Through gestures and a series of comedic misunderstandings that’d put Mel Brooks out of the job – imagine me, a Doberman, doing the alien tango – we suss out that our new friend is from the fur-iendly side of the galaxy, stranded when his ship got a flat space rock.

Long story short, we got to work. Called in pals from Saluki Sands to Dachshund Dale, transforming this stranger pet story into a welcome waggon. Even borrowed a manual from The Wagging Tail Bookstore – “Intergalactic Repair for the Canine Traveler”.

Imagine that. A night started under the threat of something strange turned into a bark of solidarity. There I was, teaching an extraterrestrial the finer points of navigating Pawsburgh, and getting a few pointers on navigating the cosmos. Turned out he liked pig ears, too. Go figure.

When its ship finally hummed back to life, it booped my snoot with a grateful whir and shot into the stars, leaving behind a glow that wasn’t just fireflies.

“Same time tomorrow night?” Paige asked, looking up at me with eyes still filled with wonder.

I just wagged my tail, the answer obvious. In Pawsburgh, adventure was always a sniff away, and I – Gabriel, loyal friend and cosmic tango teacher – would be ready.

The End.