Hey human,

Just another night being Pawsburgh’s unsung hero—it was a hair-raising adventure at The Dapper Dog Salon. Chairs were dancing, whispers were gossiping, and I faced it all with a hero’s heart (and possibly a touch of indigestion). Saved the day, as usual. But all is calm now, fur real! Rooster, the valiant, signing off till my next twilight vigil.

🐾 Rooster

In the velvety cloak of pre-dawn, while my human snores crescendoed like a lumberjack symphony, I, Rooster, would embark on soul-stirring expeditions to Pawsburgh, the clandestine canine paradise. It was not this particular twilight, but rather a dusky evening at Cocker Courtyard, something regrettable lapped at the fringes of the known, like a droplet of bathwater on a resolute tail.

I sat perched on the Courtyard’s ancient, moss-dressed fountain, its gargoyles frozen in stone grimaces, echoes of barks from yesteryears rustling the silence. The gossamer veil of normalcy in Pawsburgh had been unceremoniously shredded. Something inexplicably eerie chewed at the fringes of reality, and my stubbornness wasn’t about to let me turn a blind eye, even when bath-time beckoned.

My gang of intriguing allies had gone off to their respective nocturnal meanderings. Bolt, the Greyhound, was undoubtedly sprinting cosmic laps around Harrier Harbor, while Trixie, that loquacious Pomeranian, was probably canvassing Affenpinscher Avenue with the kind of vigor that only bubbly characters possess. As for Whiskers, well, let’s say he maintained his post as a cryptic spectator.

The air smelled of ghost stories and impending dooms, an aroma not unlike citrus to my discerning nose. A foreboding shadow slinked across the bakeries and the whimsical storefronts. At Wagging Whisk, a mystical mist curled around the legs of tables once filled with gastronomical euphoria. At Canine Kabobs, the skewers seemed like silent sentinels awaiting a battle cry. Even Barker’s Bakery, a sanctuary of succulence, stood somber. The treats within, I presumed, were shivering in their pastries.

I took a stance, forelegs squared and shoulders as broad as the tales of my escapades. A shiver ran through my stout frame that wasn’t entirely mine. My ears, usually so perked and primed for treat activity, now tuned into a cacophony of whispers winding through the cobbled streets, seemingly emanating from The Dapper Dog Salon. “No self-respecting ghastly presence would dare mess up my carefully groomed coat,” I remarked to the quivering night, only half-joking in the way only Douglas Adams aficionados would appreciate.

A chill danced up my spine as I traipsed towards the salon. I peered through the pane, which was far cleaner than my slobber-smeared windows back home but equally as obstructive to clarity. There, amidst the reflection of my tri-color magnificence, I glimpsed the salon chairs pirouetting in an unholy waltz, and I must admit, despite my valor, I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the choreography.

Gritting my teeth, which was a magnificent and thrilling display in itself, I pondered my next move. Horror was not my preferred genre, given the choice between terror and snacks; I always voted vehemently for the latter. But, Pawsburgh was my secret haven, and I, Rooster, its unspoken guardian.

Abruptly, the mirrors fogged over, and I heard my name whined out in the signature drone of Trixie. It was a summons I could not ignore—not for chivalry, not for adventure, but because if I didn’t intervene, she would unearthly yap until the end of days.

With a grunt that I hoped sounded more heroic than petrified, I nudged the salon door with my snout. The fog dispersed, revealing an unremarkable room once again anchored in reality. The spinning chairs slowed to a halt, the whispers ceased, and I was quite suddenly, terribly alone.

As I exhaled a breath that fogged the still air, Trixie bounced in, Bolt skidded to a stop by my side, and Whiskers merely blinked into existence. “You’ve saved us, Rooster!” Trixie exclaimed.

I hadn’t the foggiest what I’d done, but in Pawsburgh, that was often precisely how the bone crumbled. Returning to my humans, I basked in the mundane glow of the living room, my tale of terror softly lingering like the aftertaste of a disliked citrus, waiting, perhaps, to rise again another night in Pawsburgh.

The End.