Hey! It’s Zion, the Silver Snoop dog! Dodged Frisbees, scoured Pawsburg, sprinted through the Dalmatian Desert, and chased down Brutus at Labradoodle Lake. Had a thrilling bark off and, guess what? We found our mate, Floppy! She’s safe and back to squaring off with squirrels. Tail wags for teamwork! Later, Z.

Listen to the story here

There I was, just me and my thoughts, snuggling in my cozy dog bed when the breathlessly somber news from my trusty Labradoodle sidekick, Toffee, hit me like a Frisbee gone awry.

“Zion, buddy, Floppy’s been dog-napped!” she blurted out, panting heavily from having dashed all the way from the troubled peripheries of Pawsburg. Floppy was the local heroine, a feisty French Bulldog who didn’t know the meaning of the word “quit.” An accomplished squirrel chaser and not a bad poker player either, Floppy’s expertly styled fur was the stuff of Canine Couture Clothing showcase dreams.

Toffee was inconsolable, her golden coat mirroring the tumultuous emotions brewing beneath. The lab’s usual sea of calm was now a maelstrom of distress. My snout instinctively twitched, a classic sign of a rescue mission on the horizon. I slinked up to her, nudging my silver head against her flank in an earnest attempt to comfort her.

“All right, what’s the plan?” I asked after composing myself, looking straight into the sapphire that mirrored my own. My squeaky rubber duck squealed in the distance, almost like a pitiful cheer, or an unanimous confirmation that there indeed was a plan: to bring our friend back.

Lower Dalmatian Desert was out of the question – too open, too easy to be spotted. We decided to start at the Lower Golden Gate Gardens where Floppy was last seen chasing her own tail to the ambient chuckles and applause of onlookers. Toffee sniffed around that area while I climbed atop a Glen of Mutthill to gather bearings.

I was getting hungry, so on a whim, we swung by the Ruff-n-Ready, swallowing down mouthfuls of grilled chicken before returning our attention to the mission at paw. I was all guts and gusto, Toffee was her usual sagely self – I could see why they call them a man’s best friend.

Midnight saw us skimming the perimeter of the Labradoodle Lake, with Toffee scanning the landscape with a focus comparable to a tax auditor on a Monday morning. We found a couple of Floppy’s favorite squeaky toys, but no Floppy. As the sun began to peek from behind the horizon, we found her, cowering in a corner on the edge of Elderwood Park, her paws trembling, and her fur predictably wild.

Her captor was one awful pug by the name of Brutus who managed the Doggy Donuts shop – the same donut shop where Floppy had won the Donut Eating Contest the day before. A sore loser, he had taken revenge by holding Floppy captive.

Toffee scored the winning goal by distracting Brutus with a tennis ball while I whisked Floppy away back home. Seeing a friend in distress, I had to do something. She’s back to chasing squirrels, back with us at Doggy Delight for our daily grub, and I’m back with my squeaky rubber duck. What more could a dog ask for? I’d say mission accomplished.

The End.