Hey Ma and Pa,

Just another day being Pawsburg’s hero—saved Nugget from a shelf collapse thanks to my trusty peanut butter! Silly Loki turned fisherman, but don’t worry, all paws are good now. Miss your belly rubs and those classic ear scratches.

Licks and wags,
Truckie

I’d been through the wringer, or at least that’s how it felt—what with the rabble of rain that had painted the last few days a heavy shade of grey in Pawsburg. My name is Mr. Truck, and if you haven’t heard of me, well, that’s probably because you’re not a dog. We mongrels have our own brand of fame, and I’m somewhat of a household name around these parts.

Let me tell you about a day in Pawsburg—or as it’s become known since “the event”—The Land of the Walking Pets. It’s a place where collars are just fashion statements, and humans, a distant memory. We’d heard rumors of other towns where chaos reigned; cats and dogs living together—mass hysteria. Here, we keep to the canine code. It’s all bark and no bite.

I suppose I should mention the morning in question started like any other, except, in place of my usual bowl of kibble, there was an eerie silence. A deafening peace that, if you tilted your head just right, sounded a lot like doom. The folks out in Kelpie Keys had spotted some strange canine behavior, and by strange, I mean so un-doglike that it had everyone’s fur on end.

I made my way leisurely to Pointer Pier, my musings interrupted as Sister Sadie approached with a gait smooth as silk, yet her eyes bordered on frantic. “Truck,” she called out, a nickname that sounded like a whistle to my ears. “The rumors…” She trailed off but didn’t need to finish. I could read it in the worried wrinkle of her brow.

We took to Eskimo Estuary—our paws barely touching the ground—when we saw the source of the distress. There, amidst the oyster beds, was Loki, splashing about with the peculiar zest of a pup whacked with the happy stick. But Loki was no pup, and this was no ordinary frolic. It was a chaotic dance, and with each leap, it looked less and less like he was catching fish.

“Nugget’s missing!” Sister Sadie’s voice pierced the salty air; my ears perked up at the mention of our humble chum.

We didn’t have much in the way of detectives in Pawsburg, but we weren’t without our tricks. We galumphed through the streets, past the deserted Chowhound’s Chophouse. We sniffed around The Pampered Pooch Salon—despite the fact that, to be very honest, a bath is about as appealing to me as ear-cleaning and rain combined. All to no avail.

Until, finally, we stopped by the Pet Partners Pet Supplies. There they had it—peanut butter, creamy as a lullaby. Irresistible. I slathered my nose in the stuff; a sin, I’m sure, but these days you take your Heaven where you can find it.

In that ecstasy, we heard it—a squeaking. Not of the new toy variety, but the sad cries of a deflated basketball—Nugget’s signal! We followed the bereft bounces to the belly of Pawsburg, where we found Nugget, trapped under a shelf, all a-quiver, but alive.

That’s right, we saved Nugget from certain doom, just as a dribble of drool saved my half-eaten peanut butter jar from a life of purposelessness.

We escorted Nugget back through the streets, Loki in tow with the look of a reformed rogue, and something else—a fetching stick? A symbol, really. A sign that “the event,” whatever it was, wouldn’t chip away at our spirits.

At the heart of Pawsburg, we toasted to our victory and to the joys of creamy peanut butter. Because here in The Land of the Walking Pets, adventures are still to be had, and stories to be told, all with the wag of a tail, the bravery of a heart, and the folly of deflated basketballs. And if you ask me, that’s all we really need.

The End.