Hey Mom,

Crazy night acting as Pawsburgh hero with my buddy Max! Red Squeaky Ball gone, Mona Lisa smirked, and ghostly pups sang. All in a dog’s work! Tidying up enchantments and lifting curses now. Licks and wags! 🐾

– Henry (a.k.a. Jabberwockie)

Once, under the moon’s silvery eye, I found myself amid the enchanting avenues of Pawsburgh, a dashingly handsome four-pawed protagonist with a taste for the dramatic. That particular evening, an aura of mystery wove its threads through the air – even the wind whistled secrets as I trotted towards Pinscher Plaza.

Having been “the Henry” for quite some years, Keeper of the Red Squeaky Ball, fervent disparager of citrus, and hound about town, one might assume one’s seen all the tricks a dog’s life can roll over for. However, that night, Pawsburgh, my comfortable canine utopia, had decided to bare a set of fangs I hadn’t quite seen before.

As I approached The Furry Friends Art Gallery – where the painting of that infamous mutt Mona Lisa usually greeted passersby with her enigmatic smile – I felt an eerie chill. The painting, that night, smirked. The smile had warped into a disquieting expression that seemed to say, “Run, Henry, before you too fall into the canvas of eternal sit-and-stays.”

I blinked. The image was normal again, Mona Lisa with her accustomed mysterious grin. “Perhaps,” I mused, “I’ve been partaking in too much Golden Grub and my keen senses grow dull.”

Brushing off the uneasy tickle at the back of my neck, I gallivanted towards the illustrious Pawprint Pizzeria. “What could possibly happen in a pizzeria?” I heard myself think. Yet as I neared, the aroma of basil and cheese was overwhelmed by… could it be? Citrus? A pizzeria, phantasmal and toying with me via the one scent that revolted my delicate snout!

Unsettled but not deterred, I decided a visit to my friends would ease my growing apprehension. Max, that Labrador with the laugh as big as his heart, would know what to do. But upon reaching his residence at Ruby Rottweiler Ridge, my tail ceased its habitual wag. Max’s waggy, welcoming demeanor was twisted into a sullen, unnatural brood, and his cheerful bark was replaced by an ominous growl. “Henry,” he intoned, sounding more like a portentous narrator of doom than my buddy. “The squeaky red ball has disappeared.”

A jolt of fear shivered down my spine. That ball was my talisman, my toy of tether holding back the shadows from my spirit. We had to act. I rallied Max, and together we scampered towards Pointer Pier where we’d last frolicked with my cherished sphere.

As we reached the Pier, a shroud of fog ghosted in from the water, and from its midst came a series of high-pitched, almost imperceptible squeaks – my ball! But accompanied by what? A choir of phantom pups, unseen but present in the gaggle of sinister echoes.

“This always happens when I skip my evening nap,” I sighed, turning to Max, who now sported an even gloomier expression.

Suddenly, with the gravitas of a playwright poised at the apex of his drama, I realized that these spectral occurrences were the stage pieces for a more sinister tale. We weren’t simply missing my squeaky toy; Pawsburgh itself was under some enchantment, and my dear red ball was perhaps the key to lifting this canine curse.

Gathering my courage, along with the remembrance of chicken-flavored triumphs past (anything but citrus!), I knew it was up to this melodramatic mongrel to set things right.

“For Pawsburgh; for squeaky balls everywhere!” I barked, a declaration that would ring through the annals of dog-dom if there were scribes about to jot.

Whether the shadow looming over my beloved town was a capricious spirit or a full-blown entertaining terror, it was clear it had not yet reckoned with the resolve of Henry – fluffer of the highest order and four-legged hero-in-the-making. And with that, my friends, another beguiling tail – I mean, tale – awaits its narration.

The End.

Share This Story: