Hey Mom,

Just saved Duchess from a faux-paw at the Pug Palace with a stealth squad of pets! It was ‘Ocean’s Eleven’ meets ‘The Aristocats’ – pure animal antics. Even played a bark-tastic tune for distraction! Each tail wagged today was a tale for tomorrow. Your son, Princess Mariposa, is officially a furry hero. 😎🐾

XOXO,
Prinnie

Listen to the story here

There are moments in one’s canine life that beg the question: to fetch, or not to fetch? For yours truly – that is, Princess Mariposa, the Papillon extraordinaire, this was not one of those moments. This was a time for action, a quest of the most utterly daring kind.

I stood, paws akimbo, on the cobblestone of possibility, juxtaposed between The Wagging Tail Bookstore and the scents wafting from Doggy Donuts. My nose twitched; my tail, though dignified in its restraint, performed a subtle waggle of anticipation. For at the heart of Spencerville’s quiet normalcy throbbed the exciting irregularity of adventure.

“Mariposa, old chap,” intoned Sir Barksalot, a robust Golden Retriever with a monocle that he never seemed to need. “We’ve got a bit of the old snafu at Western Fawn Pug Palace. Duchess, the Dachshund, has gotten herself nabbed by some tomfoolery.”

I pranced on the spot, Missy the hedgehog toy jostling in excitement from its berth in my satchel. Duchess and I went back, oh, at least a dozen or so pampering sessions at Spa for Paws, sharing an unequivocal disdain for the waterlogged horror that was swimming.

“We must mount a rescue posthaste!” I declared with more grandeur than needed, but if one can’t be grand at the prospect of a mission, then when, I ask you?

The assemblage of my impromptu crew was a task in itself, the drawing up of a plan as intricate as my tastes for strawberry bagels was particular. Major Tom, a siamese cat with a knack for stealth; Whiskers, the Scottish Fold, unparalleled in logistics; and of course, Sir Barksalot, now head of aerial distractions (a role his penchant for frisbee had destined him for).

“We strike at the stroke of kibble,” I resolved. “Duchess shall not spend a night in durance vile!”

The night draped herself in a shawl of stars as we approached the palace, a structure of such overt opulence it could only have been named by someone with a love for alliteration rather than understatement.

Major Tom flicked his tail, a signal for my shoes to kiss the grass with the delicacy of a butterfly landing upon a bloom. To my right, pawprints silent as muted whispers, Whiskers arranged our escape route with the precision of a Swiss watch, if Swiss watches dealt in hydrants and every fire hydrant was an unmarked exit.

For my part, I offered a performance worthy of the Royal Barkington Theatre, prancing ostentatiously, stirring the air with a hearty rendering of “Who Let the Dogs Out?” that served both as a jarring diversion and a not-so-subtle homage to our collective heritage.

As Sir Barksalot soared, his majestic form casting undulating caricatures on the walls, blocking the moonlight like an airborne eclipse – the guards, entranced by the spectacle, left their posts, spellbound by the athletic display.

Duchess was, as I expected, poised and polished, yet with a whiff of indignation, her whiskers twitching in a minor symphony of irritation.

“Mariposa! About time,” she chuffed, her voice rich with the tones of one not accustomed to awaiting rescue. “Could you not have been a tad swifter?”

Affronted, I could only wink a dashing eye as Whiskers unlocked her gilded cage with a borrowed key, the heist of which was a story for another day. Faced now with the prospect of a swift retreat, I led the pack, a flutter of paws and hopes, through the labyrinth of Spencerville flora.

And so, beneath the indigo kiss of the approaching dawn, as Spencerville still slumbered in dreams of chew toys and endless fields, we returned Duchess to her rightful place among the town’s mosaic of fur and friendship, having pulled off our very own, rather peculiar, pet rescue mission.

The poetic justice of it all was not lost on me. For though I am but a dog, armed with wit and not much else, I can’t help but find solace and unbridled joy in the simple fact that an operation impossible for humankind is merely an evening stroll for we, the illustrious pets of Spencerville.

The End.