Yo, just saved Pawsburgh from some shady kibble dealers with only my nose and some sass. Think ‘Furry Godmother’ in a detective hat. You might wanna give me a scratch behind the ears when you see me. 😉 – Nezuko, baby dawg

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Listen, it was just another dog day afternoon in Pawsburgh; you know the kind, the sun glistening over Mastiff Meadows, all the fire hydrants freshly painted and the hydrangeas blooming like they’re in a beauty pageant. So I sez to myself, Nezuko, baby, it’s time to razzle-dazzle ’em with your four-pawed foxtrot.

I was nosing my way down to Cavalier Cove – that’s usually where the action is, and believe you me, I’m all about the action – when I catch a sniff. Now, I got a schnoz that could outsniff a truffle pig on espresso, and this particular scent, it wasn’t no sunshine and daisies. It was the rank smell of mischief. And I’ll tell you, I wasn’t about to turn my stubby little tail and scuttle on home to safety. Nah, safety was for cats – sorry, Penelope.

As luck would have it, my regular joint, Golden Grub, was all abuzz. Word in the alley was that the Canine Cartel had rolled into town, hawking black market kibbles. “Black market kibbles?” I think to myself as I strut in. “That’s bananas in pajamas; who would do such a thing?” Well, my friends, they’re offering the kind of top-shelf, grain-free, vat-aged kibbles that would make a show dog blush. And the mutts of Pawsburgh were eating it up, quite literally.

So I saunter down to my favorite booth and who do I see? Sir Charles, decked out like he’s about to be knighted – with a little tin foil sword and everything. I tuck into my usual, the house special, prepared by my pal, Gino, the short order cook with the lazy eye that couldn’t fry an egg to save his litter. But you didn’t hear it from me.

As I’m getting my munch on, I overhear two low-level heelers yapping about a drop at Hound Heights. Now, if you’re not in the know, Hound Heights is Pawsburgh’s “paws-de-resistance,” a place so upscale that even the lampposts have pinky rings. And a drop? That’s lingo for the latest shipment of illicit kibbles.

Well, I’m not just some furball with big eyes and a squeaky toy. I’ve got a reputation to uphold, see? So I make like a greyhound and race over to Sir Charles. “Chuck,” I says, “I gotta tip hotter than the sidewalk in July. We gotta caper that could land us in the doghouse—for good.”

Chuck, he’s a bit dense, bless his furry socks, but loyal like a subscription service. “Nezuko, what’s the grift?” he asks, eyes all wide and earnest. Chuck’s a straight-shooter, but I got panache, I got flair!

So we skip on over to The Fetching Feline to get us some gear – nothing but the best for this heist. Penelope gives us the whiskered wink, and just like that, we’re outfitted like a couple of ‘Dogfather’ extras, all ready to roll before the moon’s critter-high in the sky.

And the rest, well, it’s fur under the bridge. We foiled the Canine Cartel’s kibble caper with such class it had the town barking about it for weeks. Even got a mention in the ‘Pawsburgh Post’. And that’s how, my two-legged friend, I, Nezuko, tiny pawn in the grand game of life, stepped up as Pawsburgh’s pint-size protector, guardian of good grub and nemesis to ne’er-do-wells. So let that be a lesson: Never underestimate a dog with a nose for crime, a heart of gold, and friends in both high and low places.

And you know the best part? After all that jazz, I still made it home for Mrs. P’s salmon scraps, with a tail-wagging tale to tell.

So there you have it, sit back, pour yourself a bone broth, and toast to the legend, the legacy, the one and only: Nezuko, baby dawg, savior of Pawsburgh’s soul.

The End.

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