Hey Mom,

🐾Ventured through a ghostly Pawsburgh today with Juicy Butt, faced a silent storm of closed shops and missing doggy artists. Our detective noses sniffed out adventure where the humans see but dreams. All’s paw-some now, homeward bound with tails wagging and hearts full of mystery. More tales at dinner! 🐶

Woofs & Licks,
Widdle 🤠🐾

At the whisper of dawn, I slip from the clutches of that incessant human snuggle – an arm heavy over my side – and into the courage of adventurous dreams. They think it a slumber, those humans, while I, Cowboy, am galloping to the heart of Pawsburgh.

Oh, Pawsburgh, with landscapes that stretch beyond the horizon of my waking life. Here in Bloodhound Bluffs, where the scent of the past lingers still, I roam alongside shadows of dogs long gone. Today, the Bluffs appear more haunting than usual, a fog rolling in like the breath of a dragon tired from a night’s adventure.

I plod down Whippet Way, the bustling thoroughfare now oddly hushed, shops shuttered as if expecting a storm, or worse, a flea outbreak. My favorite spot, The Wagging Tail Bookstore, lies in the queer silence of premonition. Determination guides my paws; this will not do. Not on my morning jaunt.

Onward I waltz, to the hub of all canine cuisine, Labrador Lunch. Closed! A shock, indeed. No tantalizing whiffs of steak or the comforting aroma of chicken soup. The world seems topsy-turvy, a place of the walking pets in hushed whispers and trepidation.

Juicy Butt would relish this drama. But where is she? A glance at Collie’s Cuisine carries nary sign of her snorting snout. For she is the Watson to my Holmes, the jelly to my peanut butter.

My mind wanders, a meandering stream bubbling over pebbles of thought. Why are the artful dogs not gathered at Onyx Otterhound Oasis, weaving their tapestries of dreams? Wherefore are the tail-wagging poets and the fur-tousled artists? A post-apocalyptic Pawsburgh, echoing only my paws against the cobblestone – a symphony incomplete without the chorus of barks and woofs. Ah, an adventure this is, uncanny yet thrilling.

I think to myself, Cowboy, old chap, you’re in for a day of it. Indeed, never a dull moment in the life of a bulbous-headed, muscle-bound, cartoon-eyed soul.

The absence of chatter opens the gate to introspection. I muse about my disdain for things wet and my penchant for the sun’s embrace – a safer pastime than the perplexity of a vacated town. But come to think of it, my lamb chop entourage is snug back at my earthly abode, no solace to be found here.

A silhouette emerges, a figure in the mists – ’tis Juicy Butt! She bounds toward me, a wagging cassock of glee. Together we stand, partners once more. We venture to the desert of mirth, where mechanical menaces like vacuums are relics and vegetables, well, they never enjoyed much jurisdiction here, to begin with.

Side by side we amble through this empty Pawsburgh, with its secrets, its hidden tales. I conjure stories of our brave kind they’ve never heard — a dropped bone here, a generous petting there.

“’tis an odd business, Juicy,” I utter, words muffled by the mist. “An odd, fascinating business.”

Her tongue lolls out in response, agreement in its purest form.

I anticipate our humans, stirring from their dreamless sleep, unaware of the heroic deeds their unassuming pets perform in a world at the cusp of imagination and reality. Thus, I saunter toward the realm of my waking life, heart full of tales to tell and follies to relive.

So, until tomorrow, Pawsburgh. May your lampposts glow ever brighter, and your mysteries deepen like the comforting burrow of a well-loved bed.

The End.