Hey Mom,

Just wanted to let you know your “Baby Girl” had quite the day transforming into the belle of the ball in Pawsburg—it’s like Narnia for us dogs! I traded pawdicured trots for dazzling dances, savored Shepherd’s Shawarma, and twirled until midnight with the grace of a furry Cinderella. But don’t worry, the magical cloak’s off, I’m back to good ol’ Lexi, and that vacuum still doesn’t scare me. Adventures await, but for now, it’s snuggle and snooze time.

Sweet dreams,
Lexi 🐾✨

Well, isn’t life curious? Here I am, Lexi, your average tricolor Beagle with a not so average secret. You must know by now of Pawsburg, the mythical land that exists somewhere between a woof and a dream. The place I escape to when life’s little drudgeries—like lemon slices and the dreaded vacuum—threaten my peace. Oh dearest, let me tell you of the day I turned fairy tale on its haunches.

It began like every other, waking up in my corner with the sunrise tickling my nose, the rubber ball—the one that’s endured more than should be asked of any inanimate companion—snug beneath my paw. But today felt different. It smelled of an adventure, the kind you read in books but seldom live, unless you’re me; unless you’re a dog with access to Pawsburg.

When the world of humans gets a touch too tedious, us dogs, we have our methods. A shake, a stretch, and a yawn wide enough to sail a ship through—that’s all it takes. And off I trotted, down to Ruby Rottweiler Ridge, where magic isn’t just in the air, it’s the currency of the land.

It was at The Tail Wagger’s Tailor where I first sensed the tale twist. “Going to Prince Charming’s ball, are we?” the tailor barked as she took my measurements. Ball? Prince Charming? I had just come for a fitting of a new cloak, but the mention of a ball tickled my fancy. Yes, I was, thank you very much.

The cloak was crimson as fresh steak, sumptuous against my tricolor. With a hem of pomp and circumstance, I sashayed out—in the direction of Shepherd’s Shawarma because who dances on an empty stomach?

In the dance of fork and feast, Buddy joined, his tail conducting a symphony of friendship. Meanwhile, Whiskers, appearing unfazed by our doggish antics, mused, “If you dance with princes, dear Lexi, do mind the stroke of midnight.” A cat’s quip, yet it carried the weight of nine lives’ wisdom.

The ball, it was grand. Poodle’s Pasta served, you guessed it, pasta, which undulated like the river in Eskimo Estuary, and in every waltz and whirl, I was Cinderella—if Cinderella sniffed her companions in greeting.

But as the night waxed poetic, I felt the enchantment wane. Those witless chirps of my wanton howl echoed off Briard Bridge. Midnight approached. I, who do not wear glass slippers but pride myself on an impeccable pawdicure, knew that no spell lasts forever.

So, I bade farewell to the merriment, leaving the glitter and glamor in my wake, my trusty rubber ball clasped firmly in my maw. Descending Ruby Rottweiler Ridge, I re-entered the realm of reality. A tricolored dress shimmered then faded, and my collar replaced the cloak.

The cat was right; she often is. Fancy fades, but friendship and a squeaky rubber toy abide.

Journey’s end, paws planted firmly on familiar ground. Before me, the vacuum—sleeping, not stirring. I stared it down. I am Lexi, beagle of both worlds, courter of serendipity, a friend to man and beast—and a very good girl.

Now, my dear friend, as dawn beckons and the real world calls, I close my eyes, my adventures locked away until the next escape to my magical Pawsburg, where dreams come true, with just a shake, a stretch, and a yawn.

The End.