“Hey,

Been chasing tails all night – justice in Pawsburg takes no break! Helped expose Bone Appetit’s big mystery; even Boxer Beach couldn’t escape the drama. Managed a quick sniff of gratifying bacon on my crusade. Ah, Oliver would have been proud! Another day, another bone ticked off. Revenge is sweeter than peanut butter, promise you.

From,
Trigger aka Pawsburg’s Avenger”

Listen to the story here

The first light of dawn hadn’t broken yet when I slipped my leash and tiptoed, nose-first, into the hushed corners of Pawsburg. A shroud of mystery hung in the air, dressed in cat-like stealth and cunning. From the tail of my eye, I saw glimmers of the once-crowded Bone Appetit now akin to a deserted alley of the town, its canine charm shrouded by the inky darkness. The Dapper Dog Salon whispered tales of vanity and beauty while The Barking Boutique stood there mockingly, bracelets of dog collars tossed carelessly around. Pawsburg was whispering.

I trotted over to Boxer Beach, my paws leaving traces on the dew-kissed sand. The Southern Golden Retriever River shone nearby, its silent ripples carrying away forgotten tales. The taste of revenge stuck to my tongue, thick and bitter like the citrus fruits I despised. I remembered the horror, the utter dread that filled his eyes before he fell silent forever. He was no Oliver to me; Oliver, full of warmth, with a heart as big as the afternoon sun. But this heinous being, he was a storm, a tempest unleashed. And his debt was overdue.

In the heart of Pawsburg, Labradoodle Lake witnessed my cry for justice. It bore silent testimony to my shattered trust, my almost childish belief that not all humans were as cruel as they portrayed in Mr. Whisker’s tales.

Outside Kibble Cuisine, I stood sulking, as the chef inside served another serving of bacon, the smell of which olived my jangled nerves. It reminded me of the home I once had with Oliver and our shared spoons of peanut butter.

My heart ached and screamed for the tranquility of the old willow groves. But there was no time for brooding. I was bound, bound by the threads of vengeance, each more strident, each more compelling than the last. Trigger was not just a pit bull, not just another ginger-coated quadruped darting along the alleys of Pawsburg. No, I was of a breed all my own, a fighter, a sentinel of justice. With the resolve of steel and the spirit of the breeze, I ventured closer towards it, closer to revenge, closer to justice.

By dusk, the rubber duck was squeaking in triumph, and I, Trigger, tasted justice, sweet like peanut butter, comforting like bacon. The injustice of a past wrong avenged, the cruel storm of pain stilled, at least for now. And the sun dipping down the West unravelled the end of another day in Pawsburg, another day in the heart of puppy-power Trigger and her little yellow duck.

The End.