“Hey Mom, Rakphie here! Have a not-so-light tale for ya! Picked Pupperoni Pizza over Fur Taco for breakfast ☕ Now, a few lads, Luna, Benji & Graeme, and me had to embark on a mission 🕵️ Today’s agenda? Clear my good name, thanks to Mr. Whiskers framing me for the Pupsicle Palace raid 🐱 🐾 Looking at a stretch in Fetching Feline Pet Emporium! Aka, ‘Shelter of Shame’ 😞 Steered our team towards Golden Gate Gardens. A silent break-in, thrilling, almost got caught out by a loud ol’ vacuum cleaner 🏃‍♀️Your hound’s heart was in his mouth! ‘Til next heist, love, Ralphie the Super Lurcher.”

Here’s a toast to another typical day in Spencerville, a serene town, an Eden for pets, mostly dogs. That’s enough ruminations about the setting, I suppose. Let’s head straight into the hustle and bustle of my day, something you’re all very familiar with. My name is Ralphie, your charmingly intelligent and occasionally witty Greyhound.

“Ralphie, you’re not walking out the door without breakfast. Pupperoni Pizza or Fur Tacos?” my sister Luna called out from our quaint little kitchen.

“Nah, can’t do tacos. Too chewy. Gimme the pizza. And remember, no carrots!” Luna rolled her eyes with a familiar sigh before preparing my hearty pizza. Stepping out on a tale of daring, I needed my strength.

Ah, here we are at Retriever River- wonderfully tranquil. I’d give anything to lose myself in its beauty, but I’ve got a wrong to right. The usual crew was there: Benjie, a bromance made in Spencerville, Luna – my sister, and Graeme – the intellectual lesser of us siblings.

“We really doing this, Ralphie?” Graeme asked nervously, flicking his tail in that annoying way he does when he’s stressed.

“Oh, we’re really doing this, Graeme. We’re going to prove my innocence, and I’d rather not have it any other way.” The intensity in my voice was a matchstick, lighting the damp hope flickering in their eyes.

Backtracking a bit, last evening, Pupsicle Palace was raided. A deplorable mess it was. Mr. Whiskers, the infamous feline, wrongfully accused me. His history with Greyhounds never really helped our case. My hour of liberty became a countdown of detention in the Fetching Feline Pet Emporium, known to some as the “Shelter of Shame.”

As I led our ragtag team into the heart of Golden Gate Gardens, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony of the situation. It was a comical spectacle, quite typical to a Woody Allen hit, an erratic Greyhound, leading an expedition to crack the ‘Cattery.’

Following a saucy steak break – thanks to Luna sneaking into Fur Tacos, we huddled by the window of the Emporium. As my friends held their breath, the plan rolled out with a setting sun. I’ll skip the sweaty brow details, but believe when I say, the anticipation and fear were contagious.

It was a break-in, or, well, a break-out, more nuanced than the falling in love with a meaty pizza. It was dangerously thrilling, the silence of the night punctuated by our hushed footfalls. We paraded through the obstacles as if we were born for this, beneath the neon haze was a patriotic resolve unyielding.

Our betrayal was not the plot but a vacuum cleaner, set as a trap in the rear. Shivers rain down my spine when Benjie accidentally steps on it, the damned thing roared with calamitous laughter. Pandemonium ensued and we ran helter-skelter, the booming laughter of that vacuum seeming to chase us.

Do pardon my cliffhanger, darling audience. Settle in, sip your cocoa, and wait for the speedy Greyhounds set on a prison break. As a Greyhound that’s lived a lifetime of stories, remember the juice is always worth the squeeze.

The End.