by Bill Tiepelman
Tails from the Train Station
Barkley Gets the Boot Barkley W. Barkington was not your average Yorkie. He wasn’t bred for handbags, and he sure as hell didn’t take orders. No, Barkley was born with wanderlust in his whiskers and mischief stitched into his teeny-tiny underpants. If you ever doubted a ten-pound dog could sneak past five border patrols and seduce an entire bachelorette party, you clearly hadn’t met Barkley. He’d been on the move since the “Incident at the Groomer’s” — an unfortunate misunderstanding involving a shampoo bottle, an unlocked gate, and a schnauzer named Judy with a tattoo on her butt that said “Sniff Here.” Barkley didn’t do regrets. He did trains. Specifically, he did train stations, because that’s where you found the best stories, the worst coffee, and people so distracted they’d never notice a Yorkie lifting a ham sandwich out of their carry-on. Today’s platform of chaos was Station 7½ — a place that only appeared to those down on their luck or desperately in need of a second chance. Barkley fit both categories. With his brass pocket watch ticking against his chest and a coat that smelled of wet leaves and French cigars, he perched atop his battered suitcase like a prince on exile. Not sad, no — defiant. Stylishly defiant. “You can’t be here,” said a squat man in a transit vest, kicking at the suitcase. Barkley raised a brow (just one, he practiced it in the mirror), adjusted his beret, and farted in protest. The kind of fart that said, ‘Sir, I have eaten international cheeses and outlived three landlords. Back off.’ The man walked away muttering, possibly swearing. Barkley wasn’t sure. He was too busy eyeing a mysterious figure approaching with a trench coat two sizes too big and a limp that screamed “I have stories and probable warrants.” Barkley’s ears twitched. This was how it always started — with someone strange, something risky, and the faint scent of pickled onions and forbidden freedom. He sniffed the air. Opportunity was approaching, probably drunk, possibly cursed, and definitely about to change his life. The Limping Stranger and the Loaf of Destiny The man with the trench coat didn’t walk so much as stagger with attitude. His limp was real — you could tell by the way he winced every third step — but the rest of his swagger was pure showmanship. Barkley narrowed his eyes. That coat was filled with secrets. Possibly snacks. Definitely both. “You waiting for Train 23?” the man asked, his voice gravel dipped in gin and regret. Barkley, of course, didn’t answer. He was a Yorkie. But he didn’t need to speak — his thousand-yard stare into the fogged horizon said everything: I’ve seen things. I’ve peed on statues older than your lineage. Talk wisely, mortal. “Thought so,” the man nodded, dropping his duffel bag to the ground. It hit with a clunk. A suspiciously metallic clunk. Barkley side-eyed the bag. That was either a very small submarine sandwich press or the kind of device that got you banned from three countries and one pet expo. Either way, Barkley was intrigued. The man sat beside him on the bench, breathing heavily like he’d just walked through a mile of existential crisis. “Name’s Vince,” he said, not looking up. “I used to be somebody. I sold bread. Big bread. Loaves so good they got banned in Utah.” Barkley’s ears perked. Bread. Now we were speaking his language. “They said my sourdough was too sensual. Can you believe that? Said the crumb had a ‘forbidden vibe.’” Vince snorted. “That’s when I knew I had to leave. A man can’t thrive in a world that fears moistness.” Barkley nodded solemnly. Moistness was a misunderstood frontier. As Vince rambled about yeast activism and his brief stint hiding in a vegan co-op under the alias “Brent,” Barkley’s eyes locked onto the real prize — a crusty corner of a still-warm loaf poking out from Vince’s bag like a siren calling to sea-weary canines. He licked his lips and tried to play it cool. “You know what your eyes say?” Vince whispered suddenly, turning to him with terrifying clarity. “They say you’ve been kicked out of better places than this. They say you’re just like me.” Barkley gave the faintest wag of his tail. Not confirmation. Not denial. Just… an acknowledgement. The same way monks acknowledge enlightenment. Or raccoons acknowledge trash bins. “You know what I think?” Vince continued. “I think Train 23 doesn’t exist. I think this whole station’s a metaphor. For life. For the fact that sometimes, even the smallest creature in a big coat deserves a damn ride.” Barkley had to admit, he was starting to vibe with this delusional bread philosopher. Maybe it was the way Vince saw right through the fluff. Or maybe it was the warm baguette air escaping from his duffel like a Parisian fart whispering promises of carbohydrates and mild euphoria. Then it happened — the moment Barkley’s life swerved off course like a pug on roller skates. A woman appeared on the platform. Not just any woman. She had an umbrella, a velvet cape, and the energy of someone who carried loose change in antique lockets. Her hair defied gravity. Her voice defied gender. She was glorious. “Vince,” she growled. “You brought the dog.” “He brought himself,” Vince shrugged. “You know how these things go.” “He’s wearing boots,” she hissed. “You can’t just recruit a dog because he has footwear.” “I didn’t recruit him. He’s freelance.” Barkley stood and gave a long, deliberate stretch. This was his moment. He let one boot squeak dramatically on the bench. Then he jumped down, sauntered to the woman’s feet, and very deliberately peed on her umbrella. She stared down at him. Then she laughed — a long, slow laugh that smelled like licorice and bad decisions. “You’ve got moxie, mutt,” she said. “Alright. He’s in.” “In what?” Barkley thought, ears twitching. That’s when he saw it: a small brass coin slipped into his suitcase by Vince, etched with the number 23 and a paw print surrounded by a compass. Not a train number. A mission. The woman snapped her fingers. A portal opened. Not some CGI puff of glitter — a full-on dimensional tear in space that smelled faintly of cinnamon and bureaucratic despair. Vince picked up his duffel. The woman opened a suitcase that barked back. Barkley adjusted his scarf. He had no idea where they were going. But wherever it was, it beat the hell out of sitting on cold benches and wondering if destiny forgot your stop. With one last heroic bark (that sounded suspiciously like a muffled belch), Barkley leapt into the portal, boots first, eyes wide, tail high. Goodbye, platform 7½. Hello, chaos. The Con of Corgistan The transition through the portal was less of a floaty-windy magic moment and more like getting licked aggressively by time itself. Barkley’s boots hit solid ground with a squelch. Not snow. Not mud. Something else. Something... frothy? Barkley looked down and groaned. Espresso foam. He was standing in a street made of coffee. Literally. The buildings were porcelain cups stacked to skyscraper height. Lampposts were bendy silver spoons. A café sign swung lazily overhead, declaring in bold gold script: Welcome to Corgistan: Land of Short Legs and Long Memories. “Where the hell are we?” Barkley barked, but of course nobody answered. Except Vince, who popped in behind him with a flatbread in one hand and a grenade-sized coffee bean in the other. “Corgistan,” Vince said, as if this was obvious. “Ruled by the most corrupt line of royal canines since Queen Lady Piddleton II declared martial law over chew toys.” Barkley blinked. “You're making that up.” “Probably,” Vince shrugged. “But here's the thing: they need us. Their espresso reserves are tainted. Someone’s slipped decaf into the royal supply. You know what happens to a corgi monarch without caffeine?” “Nap riots?” “Exactly.” That’s when she appeared again — the mysterious woman with the velvet cape and a tendency to materialize during plot pivots. This time, she was astride a scooter powered entirely by drama and passive-aggressive huffing. “Mission brief,” she said, flinging a scroll that unrolled with dramatic length and a confetti cannon burst at the end. “You’re to infiltrate the palace as an ambassador of the Free Paw Society. Seduce the Baroness. Bribe the steward. Steal the Sacred Bean.” “You want me to seduce a corgi?” Barkley asked, aghast. “Baroness isn't a corgi,” she clarified. “She’s a Dalmatian with abandonment issues and a fondness for monocles. Barkley, this is literally in your wheelhouse.” “This feels morally grey.” “You're wearing a trench coat and bandana, love. You are morally grey.” Within hours, Barkley was bathed, buffed, and stuffed into a double-breasted diplomatic uniform that made him look like a tiny general who moonlighted as a cabaret singer. He didn’t walk into the palace — he pranced. He gave just enough pomp to pass as official but not enough to look constipated. The Baroness was waiting. Spot-covered, slightly drunk, and swaddled in velvet and disapproval. Her monocle glinted like a villain origin story. “You’re shorter than I expected,” she sniffed. “Compensated by charm and a really nice watch,” Barkley replied smoothly, giving her the full-fluff head tilt. It worked. She barked out a laugh — the kind that sounded like therapy and tequila. Over the next two hours, Barkley worked his magic. He complimented her taxidermy art. He pretended to care about royal spreadsheets. He listened with wide, soulful eyes as she recounted the time she fell in love with a pug named Stefano who left her for a pastry chef. “He was flaky,” she whispered, voice thick with pain and metaphor. Then, at the peak of emotional vulnerability, as she clutched her goblet of triple-shot tiramisu liqueur, Barkley slipped away. Down the hall. Through the pantry. Past a guard playing Sudoku with a ferret. Into the vault. There it sat. The Sacred Bean. It pulsed gently with caffeine and political intrigue. Barkley reached for it, paws trembling. “Halt!” Shit. The steward. A pit bull in formal robes. He looked like someone who once bit a priest and blamed it on allergies. Barkley did what any professional would do. He farted. Not a cute fart. No. This was an event. A long, slow honk of fermented cheese and travel stress, followed by a look of utter innocence. The pit bull froze. He blinked. Barkley swore he saw a tear form. The dog turned and fled. Barkley grabbed the bean and ran. He burst out of the palace, cape flying behind him (he’d found it in the hallway and decided it completed the look). Vince was waiting at the exit, holding what appeared to be a hoverboard made from baguettes and espresso motors. “You got it?” Vince grinned. Barkley held up the bean. “No decaf for the masses!” “To revolution!” Vince shouted. They rode off across the sky, yelling insults at the royals and leaving a trail of croissant crumbs in their wake. The Sacred Bean glowed brighter in Barkley’s paw, signaling change — and possibly indigestion. Back on the train platform that only appeared to those in need, a new bench waited. A new suitcase. A new story to begin. But for now, Barkley and Vince flew into the dusk, fueled by chaos, caffeine, and the undeniable truth that freedom sometimes comes wearing boots and a beret. And yes, Barkley peed on a Corgistan flag on the way out. Because legends aren't born. They're brewed. Inspired by Barkley’s daring leaps across platforms, portals, and pastry-filled revolutions? Bring home a piece of the legend with our exclusive "Tails from the Train Station" collection. Whether you want to hang the adventure on your wall, send it to a friend, scribble down your own escapades, or just stick a little mischief wherever it fits — we’ve got you covered. 🧵 Tapestry – Bring Barkley’s world into your own lair 🌲 Wood Print – Rustic charm with rebel energy ✉️ Greeting Card – Send someone a tale they won’t forget 📓 Spiral Notebook – Jot down your own espresso-fueled missions 🐾 Sticker – Tiny Barkley, infinite mischief Available now on shop.unfocussed.com — because legends like Barkley deserve to travel with you.
