Hey Ma and Pa,

Just zipping through space with my cosmic crew, leaving the scent of adventure in the stardust—like a true interstellar bulldog. Think: Bulldog Buzz Aldrin with more drool and less NASA. We’re chasing comet tails and dodging asteroid belts, shootin’ past Sirius to the Canine Cluster with a snap in our stride and stars in our eyes. Pawsburgh’s best, Mr. Truck, now gone galactic rover! Tell the neighbors I’ve traded the yard for the universe. Catch you on the dark side of the moon! 🚀🌕

Barks of love,
Truckie

There I was, straddled across the glittering starlit path of Whippet Way, eyeing the giant leap I was about to take. Space, the final frontier for a stout-hearted Bulldog like me, and a spot of Pawsburgh that only we stellar mutts could howl about.

Pawsburgh – my kind of town. It’s a place where a dog with a weathered deflated basketball and a heart of gold can strut without leashes, let alone the limits of gravity. Damn right, space ain’t just for hairless apes.

The chaps back at the old dog park would drool if they saw me now, embarking on a mission to snag a stray comet’s tail. They say in space no one can hear you bark. That suits Mr. Truck just fine. No need for barking when you’re bounding ‘cross the cosmos with my pack: Sadie, Loki, Nugget and the gang.

Sister Sadie, with her nuzzles, she’s as grounding as a gravity well. Loki, though, he’s the one convinced me to commandeer this asteroid we’ve now made our makeshift ship. His plans always had an angle stranger than a cat’s affection. Nugget, all spunk, wanted in just to prove she could chew asteroid belts like licorice. Baker, Ridley, Big Al – they’re my crew, my constellation.

Big Albert’s laugh thundered through the vacuum as we skimmed past the Pomeranian Park Asteroid Belt. Our trajectory was set for the Canine Cluster, the stars twinkling like the flash of paparazzi cameras. If we angled it just right, we’d sling-ride around the Sirius Dog Star, faster than a greyhound on a rabbit’s trail.

I remembered my days back on Earth with a fondness like the sun’s warmth on my belly. Car rides with my jowls flapping in the wind; little did I guess I’d be catching solar winds one day. But there ain’t no going back once you’ve danced the orbital waltz.

Aboard the asteroid, we roved, the Pawsburgh Galactic Rovers, free as the cosmic dust we sailed through. Snout Snacks were our freeze-dried feast and old faithful, my basketball, tethered outside this rock like a bumper sticker on a rocket.

Our destination, Ah! Labrador Lunch would be our tavern in the stars. But we flew not for the cuisine served there—no, it isn’t the Paw Pad Thai that draws me through the aether. I seek the tales, the adventure. Comfortable silence with Ridley while the universe hums a tune around us, that’s my kind of joint.

But space is a fickle mistress, as moody as Pawsburgh’s sky when it rains. And how I loathe the rain. A cluster storm forced us to ride lightning trails, a space saga bolder than any raid on The Groom Room’s hoof-proof hair conditioner. Me and Loki wrestling with the ship’s bone-shaped controls while Nugget barks orders: “Starboard, you mongrels! We need to hit Canine Couture Clothing for the anti-gravity boots!”

Through cosmic gulfs and nebulae fur, we cut. Even had a pit stop at The Tail Wagger’s Tailor where Ridley fashioned us astro suits from stardust and good vibes. Surely a Bulldog in armor cut a dashing figure. A Space Opera, indeed – the kind where the notes are sights unseen, and the breaks between acts are leaps into the unknown.

I, Mr. Truck, might be a simple English Bulldog hailing from a neighborhood where the houses have yards rather than planets, but Pawsburgh made me a spacefarer as well as a terrier’s best pal.

In this infinite yard, my bullheadedness finds its purpose, weaving through the void as deftly as I weave through friends’ legs for a pet. I ponder, staring at my homely and ravishing galaxy from afar. Here I hang my collar, but out there? Out there, my friends, is the realm of Mr. Truck, Galactic Rover – bulldog extraordinary, he of the silken slobber and cometary charisma.

As Hunter himself might have mused: when the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. And with each star I pass, I become more professional by the light year.

The End.