“Dad, made it to Pawsburgh. Sniffed out some epic stories at Boxer Beach. Flirted with disaster at a pet shop and stole the show at a salon. But those baths, yikes! Wrapped it up at the Canine Café, missing Christine. Ended the night solo-style in Westie Woods. As Zach says, just another doggone truth in my life. – Nelson, your English Bulldog”

Listen to the story here.

There I was, just after the late-night chime of the town clock, heading towards the gateway to the canine Shangri-La we call Pawsburgh. The moon’s glimmer casting long shadows on Boxer Beach as I, Nelson, hunkered down to sniff out any stories left by my predecessors in every corner, nook, and cranny of the sand.

“And here we are once again, the magnificent town where dogs find their Nirvana, or at least, a decent deli,” I muttered with that recognizable low growl of mine, both eyes twinkling with mischief – one blue, the other brown. Say hello to Nelson, a character so charming, he doesn’t see breed in friends.

I ventured past Pooched Potatoes, my nostrils flaring at the mouth-watering aroma of beef gravies and savory dog treats wafting from the eatery. The enticing smell made my tail spontaneously began to wag, a sight that would give anyone a laugh. I could almost taste the delight of well-done beef, with a hint of tang from the ice cream chiming in nostalgia left by Christine, my favorite human.

“Unattended beef, anyone?” There was a chuckle in my tone, although my speech, I suspect, was only coherent to me and perhaps a few other academic types in Pawsburgh. I sauntered into Whiskers and Wings, wagging my tail as if conducting a symphony in G major.

Interacting with the vendors was a sport in itself, a tragic comedy of sorts. At The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium, I had a near-brush with disaster concerning a shaky cat tower and a rogue mouse toy, tipping over the former and emerging as a victorious hero. I strolled through The Dapper Dog Salon, quite proud of my rugged charm. The hairspray and bubble-bath whiffs sent a tiny shudder along my spine. “Baths, blimey!” I inevitably yelped at the sight of a tub, the Bulldogs’ arch-nemesis, tickling the staff into hearty laughter.

Escaping the assault of hygiene-related sensory experiences, and as if to recuperate, I made my final pit stop at The Canine Cafe. Christine, my favorite vet, somewhere from her mysterious realm beyond Pawsburgh, seemed to linger here, infusing the place with a thick dose of familiarity.

After a day of laughter, adventure, culinary delights, and a mild annoyance at bathtubs, I finally succumbed to the embrace of solitude, even if unwanted, under the whispering willows of Eastern White Westie Woods. Alone, yet not really alone, Pawsburgh was tireless, and I had a feeling the town would yawn and stretch, ready to begin another day of unscripted hilarity and random shenanigans.

“Why, you may wonder, do I like to come here?” I found myself pondering aloud as the sun began to peek above the horizon, dousing Lower Golden Gate Gardens with a soft, golden glow.

I picked up my favorite worn-out shoe like a prized trophy, my trusty Kongs bouncing excitedly in anticipation near my paw. “Well, like my dear friend, Zach, would say, ‘It’s the doggone truth! It’s just another day in the life of Nelson, the English Bulldog…!'”

The End.