Hey Mom, you wouldn’t believe it! Yours truly just led a ‘Mission Impossible’ style escape from the pound, outsmarted sticky locks and ran like the wind, all for our Snowflake. She’s safe now, chewing carrots in dreamland. Probably plotting her next adventure for us to handle. All in a night’s work, right? Love, Mags.

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There I was, one moment free as a frisky squirrel on the loose, the next confined between the iron-clad bars of woe. Who’d have thought Snowflake, the perky Siberian Husky, would ever find herself within the plain and undignified walls of an animal shelter? A misidentification, they called it. Snowflake, a menace? The very thought was ludicrous.

“Mick, Luna,” I pleaded, my icy blue eyes meeting theirs from behind the bars, “You’ve got to help me shake off these unjust chains.”

Mick, sagely as one born with the wisdom of the elders, passed a knowing glance. Luna, her golden coat gleaming under the harsh artificial lights of the shelter, nodded in agreement. Our eyes spoke volumes, sealing a pact, an unbreakable bond of friendship in the face of adversity.

As the arm of the inky night lay heavy on the city of skyscrapers, unbeknownst to the sleeping world, we began our mission. A thousand tricks we’d learned on the streets of New York City were now to come in handy. Luna was the muscle, Mick the brains and me, Snowflake, well, I was the heart of the operations.

Mick, though bulky and seemingly oafish, displayed a cunning unlike any I’d seen before. Luna, bless her soul, the retriever that she is, retrieved a particular tiny object safekeeping in her mouth — a hairpin. In the quiet darkness of the shelter, Mick worked. The lock, though sturdy, was no match for his tenacity. Hours passed, or that’s what it felt like, when “Click!” an insignificant noise indicated my freedom was within paw’s length.

Like a phantom on a balmy night, they vanished, only their echoing whispers. “Run, Snowflake, we’ll see you at Central Park.”

As I bounded down the dark alleyways, my heart pounded a rhythmic song of freedom. In the silence of the night, I imagined myself trotting down in Spencerville, meandering across the Northern Choco Chihuahua Castle, my odd love for carrots being sated by Bark ‘n’ Roll’s daily carrot pies.

Making it to my den, and now a fugitive, I curled up onto my bed, my heart echoing the unspoken, a promise of a new tomorrow. Tonight, I would dream not only of Central Park’s squirrels but as a free spirit at the Siberian Summit in Spencerville.

The pound, the wrong accusation, had been but just unjust bars on my journey. I was home. Not just in a physical sense, but in an indomitable, spirited sense. I was back as the reigning princess of my world, the tug-of-war champion, the unabashed vegetable lover, the whimsical spirit, the Snowflake. Freedom, as I reminisced amidst the quiet hum of the city, tasted distinctly of carrots. Sweet, raw, earthy, just as I liked it.

The End.

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