Hey Dad, just a quick update from your favorite furry hero! Managed to chase away the vacuum monster, rescue the neighbor’s lost ball, and still found time for my fifth nap. Life’s a treat, literally! 🐾 – Bobo

It was a pitch-black night, and the moon hung low in the sky like a giant glowing chew toy, casting long silver shadows over Pawsburg. Normally, I, Albert Einstein, known affectionately by my pals as BigAl or sometimes Bobo, would be settling into my favorite spot—my dad’s leg—for a night of peaceful snoring. But not this night. Oh no, indeed. This was the night of the annual Doggy Horror Picture Show, a paw-some rendezvous of music, mystery, and mayhem.

You might not know this, but Pawsburg isn’t your typical tail-wagging town. It’s a magical realm where we sneak off to when humans are busy doing human things. By day, I’m a loyal companion; by night, I take center stage in musical extravaganzas.

As I trotted down Woof Avenue, my heart pounding like the rumble of a vacuum cleaner (yes, I despise those things), I practiced my lines, “It’s astounding, time is fleeting…” timing my steps to the Beatle Bagels, where fresh rounds of bagel bones greeted my nostrils.

The venue for the night’s spectacle was none other than Onyx Otterhound Oasis, famed for its ethereal glow under moonlight. The fellow performers had gathered, a motley crew of canines, shimmering under the starlit sky—Fat Russell the brindle bulldog looking dapper, Lilly the pug from Alabama already in character as Ruffles the Fearsome Phantom, and Baker from Oklahoma, who couldn’t stop wagging with excitement.

“BigAl!” called out Rosie, her voice sweet as vanilla ice cream, another favorite treat of mine. “You’re going to kill it tonight!” Her use of the word ‘kill’ made me hesitate—most dogs don’t use it in conjunction with a musical—but this was, after all, the Doggy Horror Picture Show.

We rehearsed once more before showtime, my fawn coat warmed by the spotlight, which was nothing compared to the warmth I felt while sunbathing during the daytime. The stage was set with fog machines and eerie props provided by Hound’s Haven Hotel, lending an air of authenticity. I’d be lying if I said the loud noises didn’t rattle me a bit, but tonight, I was growlbert the ghastly, fearless leader of the seductive dog pack.

Suddenly, the lights dipped. The music swelled with a spooky vibrato. And there I was, center stage, trying to suppress the stubborn wrinkle in my brow that always threatened to give away my timidity.

As I performed, the audience howled and barked with delight, especially during my solo piece—an ode to my beloved stuffed animal Grogu. Even the sternest critics couldn’t resist our canine charm.

The finale was a whirlwind of wagging tails and skidding paws in synchronized madness, each movement as planned and precise as my nightly cuddle routine. We ended with a spectacular leap, landing in a heap of tangled fur to uproarious applause.

With the show concluded, there was only one place to go: Bulldog’s BBQ. I could already taste the corned beef, and perhaps, if fortune smiled upon me, a dollop of ice cream for dessert.

As the night dwindled and dawn’s first light peeked over the puddled lanes, we tucked our dreams away, waiting eagerly for the tales we’d recount to unsuspecting humans.

Sneaking back home, I nestled onto my dad’s leg, my world more colorful for a night of daring escapade. Truly, there’s no horror in Pawsburg—only pure bliss, wrapped in a friendly paw, especially when wrapped in the layers of a musical frenzy.