Hey Mom,

Had quite the adventure in Pawsburgh – Gracie nabbed my fav tennis ball, so I planned a cheeky little chicken-foot trap to get it back. Ended up sharing a laugh and the spoils instead. Revenge? Not my style. Friendship wins, paws down. P.S., we’re all good now.

Barks and tail wags,
B-Dog 🐾

Listen to the story here

Well, now, let me tell ya ’bout a peculiar turn o’ events that befell me in the magical hubbub of Pawsburgh. The kinda tale that gets one’s fur in a twist, if a body’s not too careful. It all began one mornin’, and bright it sure was, as I set my four paws down Affenpinscher Avenue with the intent of larkin’ about with my golden compadre, Gracie.

But lo and behold, when I arrived at our sacred meetin’ grounds—the corner where Basenji Bay greets Lhasa Lane—Gracie was nowheres to be spotted. Thought it a mite queer, as she’s right punctual, mind you—more’n some mail carriers I know. So, given the circumstances, I shuffled my paws down to Barker’s Bakery, reckonin’ I might sniff her out.

No sooner had I poked my sniffer ’round the corner when I spied Gracie, tail afuzz, all snuggled up with a rascal of a Poodle there on the bench by Paw-lickin’ Pancakes. What caught my eye and racked my brains wasn’t the sight of her grantin’ audience to the likes of him, but rather the sight of what she was noodlin’ around with—my tennis ball, the most prized of my possessions.

There it was, rollin’ under her paw, my best tennis ball with its subtle, scent-soaked fuzz. Doubtless stolen from my basket when the world was bathed in moonbeams. I’d’ve recognized it ‘mongst a thousand of its kin—a smudge here, a bite mark there, often a solace when mine world grew tumultuous.

I swallowed the betrayal, feeling a maelstrom swirlin’ in my belly. A plan began simmerin’, bubblin’ up from the depths of my noggin, a vengeance so sweet it would be comparable to the chicken feet I so dearly adore.

But vendettas ‘mongst friends is a delicate business, a dance on the wire ‘twixt jest and enmity. Given my natural inclinations towards the milk of canine kindness rather than the vinegar of malice, I plotted a heist of the highest order.

Twilight descended upon Pawsburgh, and Gracie, bless her heart, had drifted to Best in Show Photography to immortalize her beauty. Quiet as a mouse, I trotted to Woof and Whisker Wellness Center where she oft enjoyed a pamperin’. Acquirin’ the freshest of chicken feet—the very luxury that makes my palette sing—I laid the bait.

Come to pass, I stuck my nose out the door and there she was—Gracie dartin’ towards the glorious scent, her thievin’ days forgotten in light of gustatory pleasure. Snatchin’ up my tennis ball with a magician’s flair, I made myself scarce, cocooned in the shadows.

Yet, revanche is no simple joy. Watchin’ her rejoice in her chicken feet, I felt the sour tang of guilt gnawin’ at my insides. Pawsburgh ain’t made for vengeance, not for the likes of us Golden Retrievers, bound by an ineffable code of loyalty.

Decidin’ the lesson had been learned, I rolled my reclaimed ball towards her, and that rascal Poodle with a forgiving nudge. And as I joined their repast, the heartfelt laughter playin’ on the night air told me our friendship would outshine the stars.

If you’re takin’ to heart the yarn that I spun, the moral is this: revenge is a dish that’s better not served at all, lest it poison what’s pure. Turn the other ear, play you may, and you’ll find the wealth of good company, as I have in my dear Gracie, is worth all the tennis balls in the world. Or at least—in Pawsburgh.

The End.