Hey Mom! You won’t believe it, but tonight, I stumbled upon a little lost kitten on my midnight stroll. Did the whole rescue thing 😅 Found myself unwittingly auditioning for the role of Hero in this fuzzy saga of Pawsburgh. Turns out, I’m more than just a treat connoisseur – I’m a kitten-saving bulldog with a heart as big as my appetite. Now, off to dreamland with a side of liver treats and purrs. 🐾 – Que

I never fancied myself a hero, not in the traditional sense, but there I was, awoken in the dead of a moonless night by the siren call of Pawsburgh’s peculiar destiny. There was no time for the usual stretch and yawning; urgency gripped my paws and tugged me toward Garnet Greyhound Grove, where shimmering under the cloak of serendipity, my crescent moon toy twinkled, whispering secrets of an unexplored plot in the tapestry of canine adventures.

As I padded through the sleeping city with the echo of my paws clicking softly against the cobblestones, my mind returned to earlier that evening at Husky’s Hotcakes—the syrupy aromas clashing with my anticipation for the taste of my favorite liver treats. The flavors, I tell ya, they danced across my tongue like the nimblest Saluki on sands.

Yet, there, beneath the syrupy anticipation, an insidious sensation gnawed at me—the knowledge that somewhere in this musky paradise, a scent of citrus loomed, my archenemy in the odorous kind. Not even the pleasant jostle of friendly Furballs at the Doggie Daycare could dissuade the shiver that whispered down my spine.

The grove was silent, save for the wind’s whisper through the silver branches. The usual crowd of Whippets and Greyhounds were absent, and I found myself a lone actor on an unscripted stage. A cold tendril of isolation coiled around me, but like a sturdy oak in the midst of a tempest, I stood firm, defiant of the shadows.

“Why this rendezvous with the crescent moon, Que?” the night seemed to ask. A question to which even I didn’t fully know the answer. Was it the thrill of discovery, or perhaps the call of duty that stirred the soul of a bulldog whose stout heart mirrored his ample girth?

A pitiful mewling broke the silence—a cry not of my kind, but urgent all the same. In a trice, the familiar weight of responsibility settled upon my shoulders as I pierced the darkness, intent on its source. Hidden among the shadows of Rottweiler Ridge, I found her, a lost kitten of no more than a few weeks, discarded among the ferns and fallen leaves.

What was I to do, I who count mere flies as adversaries? Could I, armed with a crescent moon and heart full of liver treats, be the guardian to this whiskered waif? The thought of my friends roused my spirit. I could almost hear the cacophony at Sniffer’s Sandwiches as they bandied opinions over a shared bowl.

Yet, in this solemn hour, their barks echoed only in my heart—a canine council convened in spirit. They’d say, “Que, you old softie.” They’d tease and thumb their noses, even as admiration glimmered in their playful eyes. They’d be the first to rise in chorus, “Rescue, Que, it’s what we do in Pawsburgh.”

With the kitten bundled in the embrace of my crescent moon toy, the voyage to The Dapper Dog Salon, transformed into a makeshift shelter, was a sonnet of sighs and shuffles. Marcy, the tender-hearted Mastiff at the desk, shot me a look of soft surprise before melting into the puddle of warm affection she’s so known for.

There’s no denying the drama of life, each day a script anew, characters entering and exiting. You see, in Pawsburgh, no tail is insignificant, no bark goes unheard. In this town where I, Que, am but a humble bulldog, this night, under a hidden moon, a page turned, and for a brief beat, I felt nothing less than extraordinary.

As Marcy took the kitten, I retreated into the velvet night, the taste of liver treats awaiting, and a tale to tell come morning.

The End.

Share This Story: