Hey Mum & Dad,

Funny tale from Pawsburgh – tried my paws at time-travel for ancient bacon in Weimar. Turns out, chaos and brooms are timeless! Ended up savoring local pizza topped with the good stuff instead. Who knew? Adventure’s great, but sometimes the best treats are right under our noses. Lesson learned, tummies filled!
Love,
Lokie 🐾✨

P.S. Tell the squirrels I’ll be dreaming of them instead of chasing them… for now.

Right then, let’s get a wiggle on. It was odd, I pondered with a twitch of the ears, that of all the places in time and the universe, I fetched myself back to Pawsburgh’s cobbled streets, right outside The Wagging Tail Bookstore. But as every seasoned time-travelling Terrier knows, Pawsburgh is not just any old place; it’s where the bones of history are buried.

Now, I’m Lokie, connoisseur of sniffable secrets and fluent in the art of mirthful mischief. And when I say ‘time-travelling Terrier,’ I don’t mean the sort who simply dreams through decades during one of those cozy naps on the couch. I mean bona fide, paws-to-the-wind, nipping-at-the-heels-of-history sort of travels.

Today’s jaunt was prompted by the sudden, insatiable urge to taste the real sizzle of ancient bacon. You see, bacon isn’t just bacon; it’s a symphony of the past, each strip a crunchy slice of history. And I wanted the originals, the crispy cradle of porcine perfection.

I nosed open the door of The Wagging Tail Bookstore, which wasn’t just a trove of tomes but also the gateway to times yonder, courtesy of a peculiar portal behind the ‘History’ section that only we of the four-legged persuasion could see – and use, when the humans weren’t looking.

All it took was a waggle of whiskers, a twist of tail, and voilà, off I’d pop to wherever (or whenever) my heart desired.

Today’s stop: ancient Weimar, the alleged birthplace of delectable bacon – or so the legend went among the pups at Pawprint Pizzeria.

However, bending space and time for a bite to eat might seem trivial to some, but not when you’ve got a stubby snout attuned to the complexities of the cosmos and a belly that rumbles like thunder from a bygone era.

Admittedly, Weimar was far from Weimaraner Woods, lacking the latter’s leafy allure and its plump squirrels. Instead, there was bustle, the sort that suggests ‘plague’ or ‘pillage’ might be the word of the day, and not a patch of grass in sight. Rather inconvenient for a lad in need of a loo.

Ah, well, one must suffer for one’s supper.

Slinking through the chaotic markets, eyes wide, mind sharp, the scent snagged me: the smoky tickle of bacon on the breeze. Lush it was, guiding me past the haggling hordes, ducking under carts, beneath legs, an expert in the art of dodging careless feet. Tail held high, an ensign in pursuit of victory.

But ‘fore I could claim my prize, there rose an infernal din, hounds howling in what sounded distressingly like the key of ‘incoming’ — a sure sign that all was not as serene as a sleeping spaniel.

“Off with you, scruffy cur!” a wench bellowed, swatting at my determined behind. Humans, honestly. No appreciation for canine commitment.

Much as it pains me to admit, I vamoosed. Yes, baconless but unbowed, out of Weimar and straight back to the bookstore, tail a-tucked, a touch singed at the edges. Blasted time travelling.

That’s when it struck me – the charm of home. Pawprint Pizzeria, with its wafts of cheesy, bacony goodness, seemed infinitely more alluring than ancient meat, history’s temper tantrums, and wenches with walloping brooms.

Sometimes, as I have come to learn, adventures are best appreciated in the warmth of familiar dwellings and scents. Though Weimar’s bacony whispers might dance through the annals of the past, they aren’t half as satisfying as a slice fetched by a friend.

So, here I sit, plonked on Pawsburgh park’s greenest mound, content as a clam with my slice of pizza, brimming with bacon, and fresh from the oven, time’s roving rascal appeased without romping through the ages.

Tell you what, those time-nibbled escapades are a keen reminder: sometimes the greatest adventure is learning that the finest things might just be waiting at the tip of your own snout, be it in Harrier Harbor, Spitz Spire, Weimaraner Woods, or the bustling eateries nestled within our own charming Pawsburgh.

Now, let’s chew on that, shall we?

The End.