“Bart & I quelled a Squirrel Squabble at Shepherd Skyline, using my trusty frisbee! Post chaos, celebrated with chicken & cheese biscuits. Just another night in Pawsburg, where I always end up where I need to be. – Ruffles the Golden”

Listen to the story here

In the heart of an uneventful Tuesday or, to be precise, in one of the surreal dimensions known to a select population of Pawsburg’s nocturnal adventurers, my tale begins. Pawsburg, a mythical town to which we noble canines abscond in the cover of darkness, away from the inconvenient scrutiny of our bipedal companions. A town where the smells of marinated T-bones waft in the breeze and the essence of Boolong tea from Paws-A-Latte satiates the senses. The aroma rising from K9 Kebabs could make any tail wag involuntarily and the portrait opportunities at Best in Show Photography could turn the shabbiest mongrel into a doggy diva. That Tuesday, however, came with an unexpected twist.

“Ruffles!” bellowed Bart, the beagle, his words punctuated by erratic tail wags, “Grab Millie, we need to get to Shepherd Skyline pronto! The Squirrel Squabble is escalating!”

Shaking off residual sleep, I begin fumbling for my durably red frisbee. It’s a veritable post-apocalyptic tool, fantastic for distracting rabid squirrels and occasionally friendly for a game of fetch. Finding it under the chewed remains of my beloved teddy—which, for the record, resembled a teddy bear no more—I glance at Bart questioningly.

“I’ll explain on the way,” says Bart, in the kind of voice that implies imminent chaos with the ferocity of a Siberian winter, “Let’s hurry!”

Rushing through the narrow lanes of Pawsburg, buffered by quaint shops run by uncannily talented dogs—yes, dogs run shops here, accept the preposterous and move on—we reach Shepherd Skyline, where Gertrude, bless her wise heart, was mediating a rather vicious altercation between two rival squirrel groups.

I swiftly flung my trusty red frisbee into the feuding furballs with an accuracy that would make a professional disc thrower turn green, or possibly chartreuse, with envy. They scatter like, well, squirrels, and peace descends like a thick pea soup, chunky and comforting.

Back at the Chow Hound Cafe, recuperating with a helpingly abundant serve of my favorite roast chicken and cheddar cheese biscuits—their exquisite flavor made all the more enjoyable in the absence of hideous brussel sprouts—we discussed the evenings surreal happenings, mentally preparing for another night of unpredictable Pawsburgian adventures.

In the heart of the chaos, I stood, Ruffles the golden, proud in my gleaming coat, ever-ready for the adventures thrown my way. After all, in the words of my preferential human Douglas Adams, “I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be”. And that dear friends, is the tail-wagging truth of my life in Pawsburg.

The End.