Hey Mom,

Trust me when I say my life is *not* just chasing my tail – I’m actually the unofficial mayor of Pawsburgh during naptime! Navigated Apollo’s storytelling session, raced Ziggy through Pomeranian Park, and indulged in some stardust grilled chicken at Bark Buffet. 😋🐾 Avoided a sausage debacle and made it home just before you caught me dreaming. Pawsburgh is wild! Until the next adventure…

Goodnight 💤
-Lexi

Listen: my name is Lexi, and I’ll let you in on a slice of day-to-day wonder in Pawsburgh—that magical phantom town that pops up like a dream bubble when you humans blink out of consciousness or busy yourselves with other mundanities.

So it goes, one overcast Tuesday I found myself in Amber Akita Alley, that alleyway glistening with the promise of a thousand yesterdays. Here I stood, straining the leash of curiosity with each accidental whiff of canine-kneaded dough from Pawfect Pastries.

Old Apollo was in the midst of telling us a tale as tall as he was—about the time his bark echoed through the Alley, causing a parade of startled Pugs to scatter like marbles. His story, delivered with the weight of deep wisdom, couldn’t completely capture my attention as I eyed the fashion feverishly displayed in the windows of Canine Couture Clothing. It was all the rage, they tell me, but what do I know? I prefer the touch of sunshine to silk.

As I trotted by The Wagging Tail Bookstore, Ziggy the Dachshund dared me to a race to Pomeranian Park. It’s a peculiar place, where the trees rustle secrets, and the air smells of adventure and tennis balls. I, naturally, never can resist a challenge nor a chance to stretch these humble legs of mine.

We dashed, we darted, we leaped over logs laid down by sleeping giants of the forest and shot through the park, breathless as the wind itself. Apollo, taking his elegant time, arrived to find Ziggy and me mop-piled in happy defeat; the Park had won, as it always did.

After our respite, the calling of our stomachs ushered us to Bark Buffet—it’s the kind of place where dreams are served on platters and wishbones are wished upon. I tend to stick to the Grilled Chicken Fantasy, a concoction so divine, so far removed from any earthly kitchen, that you’d swear it’s the stuff of stardust.

But be told and know it well: stay clear of the Spiced Sausage Surprise. I wouldn’t touch it with a twenty-foot leash. That’s Ziggy’s fancy, though, and who am I to judge with a snout not crafted for such peppery mischief?

During our meal, stories unfolded—tales that braided together, each a different strand of our shared adventures in Pawsburgh. Laughter and the clinking of water bowls underscored every second word, and memories were toasted as if they were the finest spring water.

I was recounting the Butterfly Ball, the greatest chase fest this side of Pawsburgh, when the sky turned the color of well-baked bread, heralding our time to skedaddle. You see, the magic of Pawsburgh doesn’t cling to the clock—it knows when it’s nudged by the pressing nature of your waking world.

We scattered, a parade of tails and tales, bound back to the corners of our human-shared Earth, there to linger like fireflies in jars, twitching to break out again.

So here I am, back in my beloved earth-bound abode, tongue lolling sideward, a canine grin playing at the edges. I’ve returned to my quilted bed, collar tags chiming a soft lullaby of home. And though you may not understand the barks and woofs that I offer you, know that inside each one is a tale worth a thousand wags—a loving recount of my exploits in Pawsburgh, the town that beckons beneath my dream-drowsy eyelids.

But for now—a long, satisfied sigh and goodnight, dear friend. For the moon has taken its guarding post in the sky, and I have a reverie to catch—one that awaits on four paws, full of frolic and mirth.

The End.