Hey Mom,

So today I went from sunbathing to saving the world. Aliens landed in Pawsburgh, and guess who became their fur-filled guide and Earth ambassador? Me, Gabriel! I taught them doggy diplomacy and scored us an interstellar alliance. Also, I might have secured myself a cheeseburger for my troubles. Just another day in the life of your son, Gabey the Great!

Tail wags and face licks,
Gabriel 🐾🚀

There I was, Gabriel, the canine epitome of elegance, lounging on the passenger seat, when the scent of something otherworldly wafted through the cracked window. You know, not garlic fries otherworldly, but real-deal, not-from-this-planet kind of scent. Typical Monday—it was my day off from protecting the homestead, and the town of Pawsburgh was buzzing with a curious vibe.

You might wonder how a noble Doberman like me ends up in the gossip, but let me tell you, with my loyalty game strong, I’m practically the Sherlock Bones of Pawsburgh. So, naturally, I was bounding off to investigate with Paige romping beside me, her golden-blonde coat glinting in the sun.

The calamity had unfolded at Setter Shore, where surfers and Frisbee enthusiasts usually dwell. Instead, I found a throng of my pals, noses in the air, tails tucked, as a shimmering disc hovered over us. Alien invasion—that’s cheese for thought!

The other dogs were in a flurry of panic, but I, energized by novelty, was curious rather than scared. “Friends,” I began, voice steady as a metronome, “Let’s not pooch our pants just yet.”

We trod cautiously to Chestnut Cocker Courtyard, where bravado was about as common as a cat with a day job. That courage seeped into my pads. I had a reputation to uphold, after all. My intelligent eyes scanned the vicinity, the cogs in my mind spinning with plans of defense.

At The Wagging Tail Bookstore, the spectral creatures manifested. Looked like slinkies with eyes that rolled like dice, and hands—if you could call them that—with fingers like those flirt poles I adore. Except, there was nothing flirtatious about this encounter.

They spoke Earth English, probably a Rosetta Bone edition we hadn’t sniffed out yet. “We come in peace,” they announced, but you know how convincing that is when you’re salivating over a block of cheese and someone says “Don’t eat that”?

In true Picaresque style, I made an unlikely hero; patchwork plans our modus operandi. Paige was giddy with excitement, but my paws were steady—no Wagging Whisk confection could sweeten this situation.

“We demand to see your leader,” the aliens intoned, and my ears perked. “Look no further,” I said, stepping forth. After all, who more regal than I to represent the canine kingdom?

In David Sedaris’ prose, I’d muse, “Oh, the indignity of politics. One moment you’re frolicking with your tug-of-war nemesis, the next you’re an intergalactic ambassador.”

And thus begun our bargaining. I offered the aliens a Schmackos treaty—diplomacy fueled by treaties of the treaty variety. But what they craved was knowledge, dogged wisdom that even Dog’s Delicacies couldn’t cook up.

As we escorted them through Pawsburgh, they absorbed our ways. They marveled at the harmonious yaps at Barking Brunch and the sartorial finesse at The Tail Wagger’s Tailor.

I shared our golden rule: Be loyal, be energetic, be friendly, and, above paws, be intelligent. Disdains aside (rain, sweet treats, and the pool), I showed them the ropes of earthly dogdom.

Soon enough, the aliens—now collared with friendship—promised to safeguard our secret town, turning their saucer toward the stars with a canine bark of approval. I chuckled, watching them depart, thinking of their report on the dog planet: “Invasion? More like inundation… with love and fur.”

Paige yapped, her tiny form buzzing like a bee on a sugar rush, “You did it, Gabriel!”

Licking her ear, I smiled. “Let’s hit Papillon Promenade. You owe me a cheeseburger.” And off we trotted, saviors of the day, ready to snooze until the next grand tale called for my steadfast paw.

The End.

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