“Yo, crazy day! Strolled down Biscuit Blvd towards the Fawn Pug art exhibit, but found Marley in a panic in the Woods. Our fav squeaky duck – gone! Run home to Mrs. Alcott for comfort, get greeted by carrots (yarf!). Long story short – found the duck hidden in Canine Couture Clothing under a (gag) carrot scarf. Ended day with a roast at Doggy Donuts – no veggies involved. 🐾River”

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So there I was, strolling down Biscuit Boulevard – fancier than it sounds, trust me – with a tasteful red collar, my sleek gold-flecked coat glinting under the balmy sun. A caramel-eyed, patch-wearing Beagle named River. I had heard the Short Haired Pointer Society was hosting an art exhibit at the Fawn Pug Palace, your typical aristocratic affair.

“Looking sharp,” the Dalmatian street vendor winked, leaning against his cart of handcrafted chew toys. I let a laughing bark slip out. A good one, Dotty, a good one.

Westie Woods loomed on my right. A peculiar sight caught my eye; Marley, my Irish Setter buddy, seemed disoriented. That wasn’t like him. I abandoned my Fawn Pug Palace idea, trotting through the woods all detective-like.

“M…Marley?” I inquired, my voice deeper than I meant it to be. Marley turned, his face greyer than a rainy day in Pawsburg.

“The squeaky duck, it…it’s gone!” Marley whimpered.

Well, that got my ears twitching, alright. The best squeaky duck in all of Pawsburg, stolen? Even the birds up in the trees seemed to gasp.

Terrified, I bolted back home. Mrs. Alcott would know. She had spent most of her days connecting with our sort of Pawsburgian society after all. But alas! The kitchen was ominous, the scent of roast chicken nowhere to be found. Instead, the distinct scent of you-know-what floated through the air. I stifled a gag. Carrots. Betrayer of all things delightful, destroyer of the world’s natural order.

“Silly River. I bet you wish there was a barbecue joint for dogs,” Mrs. Alcott laughed, perfectly unaware of my existential crisis. I gave her a meaningful look, woofed a solemn goodbye and left, my destination apparent.

Oh, the dreaded Dog-gone Good BBQ.

I pushed through the saloon-style entrance, the air inside wafting with mouthwatering scents. I quickly spotted Scruffy, my Shih Tzu acquaintance, finishing off his ribs in the corner.

“River!” he wagged, pulling me into a rough dog’s version of a hug. What happened in the next few minutes could be described as a frenzy of sniffing, digging and a convoluted game of fetch that led us to a hidden section of Canine Couture Clothing.

Lo and behold, there was my squeaky duck, wedged under a rack covered in hideous carrot-patterned scarves. Who’d want to wear those anyway?

Long story short, my duck returned. We celebrated with a roast at Doggy Donuts, minus the carrots, of course. In Pawsburg, it’s true. Every dog indeed has its day.

The End.

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