“Hey fam, it’s Milo. Braved the night with Mr. Spinkle in Pawsburgh. Met Max, frolicked in Shepherd Skyline. Had laughs, explored, sniffed the beach, chased in the woods. Ate at Bone Appetit, no zucchinis! Wrapped up with Yappy Yogurt. Twin tales of tails wagging, urban Shitzu going adventurer. Pawsburgh’s secrets? Simply ruff-ing marvelous. Night’s escapades full of doggy dreams. Home now, resting my paws. Howls of love, Milo 🐾”

The moon was a shining silver dish set up against the star-speckled obsidian backdrop of night. Everyone was out of town, leaving the sleepy suburbia to the devices of us creatures of the night. As the household lights dimmed, I, Milo, seized my trusty hedgehog toy, Mr. Spinkle and headed off to Pawsburg. “Carpe noctem,” I thought, a phrase I picked up at the Wagging Tail Bookstore.

“Oi, Milo! Over here!” boomed Max, my Boxer buddy, waving his muscular tail as I waltzed into Shepherd Skyline. Oreo, the fluffy Pomeranian, was sitting atop Max, supreme kitty style, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. I barked in laughter. Our escapades were about to begin.

We whisked each other away in our usual adventures. We pranced at the Brindle Brown Boxer Beach, sniffing up the breezy, sea-salt scented air, then scampered off to the trail along the Eastern White Westie Woods, the moonlight casting moving shadows that made our fur stand on end. The energy in Pawsburg was conspicuous – an assorted population of four-legged yarn-spinners, refusing to retire on an ordinary night at home. Pawsburg was, after all, the doggy equivalent of Las Vegas – what happened in Pawsburgh, stayed in Pawsburgh.

Somewhere in between sniffathons and playful chases, hunger gnawed at us. “Let’s get some chow,” I suggested, the thoughts of the grilled chicken at The Bone Appetit making my mouth water.

“No zucchinis, right?” teased Max, poking fun at my food peculiarity. I growled in mock offense, sending them into fits of giggles. It wasn’t that I didn’t like vegetables – just green troglodytes masquerading as food. We sauntered off, as if on a mission, our tummies setting the food destination – Yappy Yogurt for desserts later, of course.

The night drew to a close too quickly, as they always do in Pawsburgh. But as we howled out a harmonious goodbye under the waning moonlight, the thrill of the escapade lingered. With Mr. Spinkle snugly in my grip, I retired home, belly filled with scrumptious chicken no longer in existence, and a heart full of memories that would tide me over until the next escapade.

So it goes, my dear reader. While I awaited the return of my family, I had the town of Pawsburgh to color my dreams, the dreams of a suburban Shitzu who donned the cloak of an adventurer every night, living a life of wagging tails and daring tales!

You’d want to be very careful stepping into that sort of thing: a tree, a cloud, even the very air itself has its rhythms, its secrets. A dog’s life—it is to die for!

The End.