Hey Sophie,

Just wrapped another tail-waggin’ adventure! Nearly lost Lucy to a rogue tennis ball trap (of all things!), but the ‘Four Musketeers’ sniffed out the trouble. Strategy and bulldog determination saved the day once again. Pawsburg sleeps safe tonight. Tell you all about it over some chicken stew and belly rubs!

Dreaming of treats and triumphs,
Pumpkin 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

Ah, let me tell you about that one relentless dawn in Pawsburg, the enchanting shire of canine capers that I, Pumpkin, call home. There I was in Cocker Courtyard, nosing through the air that bore the scent of Corgi’s Crepes—my whiskers twitching at the buttery bliss—when the humdrum of doggish laughter was broken by a yelp from Sapphire Schnauzer Street.

The notorious “Four Musketeers” — myself, Rambo with his fur as wild as the Arctic winds, Lucy whose mane flows like she owns every inch of Pawsburg, and Dottie, nimble on her paws as she is sharp in wit — we all perked up our ears. Bold and adventurous, though I am, trepidation tickled my suntan-pink spine. Was one of us in peril?

“Lucy’s gone!” Dottie barked, more of a gasp, really, quite unlike her. We could see even spirited Rambo’s muscles tense, ready for combat or a chase.

“Sophie taught me,” I said, thinking of how humans often haywire into missions impossible, “that tactics trump panic. We start at Setter Shore; Lucy loves the waves.” My friends nodded, murmuring affirmations. Rambo suggested, “Let’s hack our way through every tidbit we have on Lucy’s last whereabouts.”

We launched into action. To Shepherd’s Shawarma we dashed, the keeper knew Lucy’s fondness for lamb. “Did see her trot, rather agitated, to the docks,” he burped out between bites.

So, off to Setter Shore, where the clouds loom like unwashed sheep and the waves whisper to the sand. There, by the old docks where Charter ships dozed, we found nothing but a collar. Lucy’s.

“Crumbs,” muttered Dottie, “this looks dire.” We agreed, all paws on deck, our eyes combing the scenery.

“We split,” I ordered. “Dottie, to The Pawfect Training Center, sharpen those senses. Rambo, swim the coast; she may be out there. I’ll sniff around The Pampered Pooch Salon. Shed hairs will tell.”

Hours ticked by like slow-chewing cows on Sophie’s farm. We reconvened at Barking Brunch as the sky dressed in twilight. Tails heavy, hope a mere flicker, we shared our empty findings and a plate of sorrow.

Then, a bark echoed through Ridley Park, my dominion! My scruffy tire forgotten, we sped to the sound. And there, beneath the willows, Lucy stood. Bound by no other than… gardeners strings? I troted with an poised elegance that Sophie insists contrasts delightfully with my burly appearance. Mischief afoot.

“Lucy, you great, galloping goose,” I scolded gently. “Fancy scaring us to our bones!” She hung her head, shame nudging her noble snout.

“Pumpkin, dear, it was horrid,” she whined. “I chased after the town’s rogue tennis ball, it led me into a trap!”

Rambo, with fangs and paws, made short work of the strings. We laughed, relief bubbling like fine bathwater. Lucy leaned in and whispered, “I owe you a Shepherd’s Shawarma.”

“Indeed, but for now,” I declared, “let all Pawsburg hear, the ‘Four Musketeers’ are reunited!”

Merriment resumed at Cocker Courtyard. We basked in its glow, sharing adventures and the warmth of our bonds. ‘Tis a dog’s life, and no finer life could there be than here in Pawsburg, with friends as steadfast as the stars.

So, there lies the tale, or one of many. Should Sophie query, I’ll tell her how the day was saved thanks to strategy, unity, and a bulldog’s nose. But for now, I shall rest, dreaming of chicken stew, and await the next time Pawsburg needs its ‘Four Musketeers.’

The End.