Hey Mom,

Just saved Spencerville from potential cat-astrophe by intercepting top-secret info with Mogwhy. The disguises as beach bums worked purr-fectly, played fetch with danger, and won! Who knew our doggy paddling would turn into spy games? Even snagged the microfilm – talk about a fetching day! 🕵️‍♀️🐾

Licks and wags,
Carla 🐶

Listen to the story here

It was a cloudless afternoon in Spencerville, as I lounged by the crinkled edges of Brindle Brown Boxer Beach, my mind as clear as the blue skies above. To the untrained eye, I was but a simple dog basking in the sun, my reddish brown coat blending with the sandy shore, ears alert and eyes half-closed in contentment.

However, beneath the tranquil veneer, my spirit seethed with cunning and purpose. For amongst the eclectic shop fronts of The Barking Boutique and the tantalizing scents drifting from The Fetching Deli, I, Carla, was embroiled in a caper of espionage most would never dream up in a thousand dog years.

My mission was deceptively simple. I had to engage in a delicate dance of intelligence gathering, tracking the elusive Agent Persian – a feline operative renowned for her stealth and slyness. With diplomatic tensions high between the canine and feline residents of Spencerville, my task was to uncover her plans and ensure the safety of the dog population.

The unusual yet familiar glimpse of Mogwhy, my beloved sister-in-combat, signalled the beginning of the day’s exploits. Her reddish brown and white coat, distinct amongst the crowd, drifted through the market square with the softness of a dandelion in the breeze.

Taking a moment to savor the feel of grains beneath my paws, I rose and shook the sand from my coat. My ball, bridging the gap between toy and accomplice, sat innocuously at my side. It would serve as the trojan horse in today’s gambit—a diversion to mask the real intent of my beachfront promenade.

A tail’s flick later, I was hurtling through The Barking Boutique’s doorway, a whirling dervish amongst neatly stacked shelves of chew toys and designer collars. The ball, launched with an expert nudge of my snout, ricocheted off a row of squeaking ducks, and as anticipated, drew the shopkeeper’s gaze to the algebra of chaos I’d initiated.

In the ensuing melee, I slipped through the back, nostrils flaring, tasting the air for the subtle signature of my feline quarry. Notes of lavender and whisker-tinged disdain met my senses. Impeccable.

Operative moggy had been here.

Utilizing the canine telegraph (a sprinkling of strategic wee-posts encrypted with the savory scents of the levant), I signaled Mogwhy to rendezvous by The Fetching Deli. The pattern of her response told me she was on the elusive Persian’s tail, quite literally. For Mogwhy, espionage was a ballet, and she danced it with aplomb.

We met beneath the crisp shade of White Westie Woods, our eyes locked with the understanding that only shared bits of kibble and whispered secrets can foster. A child approached, its gait erratic—a whirlwind of sticky fingers and ice-cream induced frenzy. A poignant reminder of our most unnerving adversaries: unpredictability and shrillness.

Eyes widening ever so slightly, I nudged Mogwhy—it was time.

Our chase led us past Pup-Cakes and Tail Waggers where cheerful customers indulged in post-dinner treats, unaware of the machinations concealed beneath their very noses. We slinked through the alleyways, the cloak of dusk enshrouding our sleek forms, until we stood outside the esteemed Best in Show Photography—a mere front for clandestine meetings.

And there she was, Agent Persian, caught in the act of exchanging sensitive intel with a suspiciously fluffy angora rabbit. She purred in satisfaction, unaware of our presence until it was too late. One pounce from Mogwhy, a deft grab by yours truly, and the microfilm rolled snugly into my waiting paws.

A flip, a dash, and we evaporated into the night, leaving Agent Persian to lament the folly of underestimating the resilient bond between sisters and operatives extraordinaire.

Back at Brindle Brown Boxer Beach, the waves whispered tales of courage and camaraderie to the shoreline. I dug a small hole in the sand, safely ensconcing the microfilm until the day it would be summoned for the good of Spencerville.

So there lay the chronicle of yet another day; Carla, the pit bull/lab mix—friend, food enthusiast, amateur ball fetcher, and unspoken guardian of the breezy utopia that is Spencerville.

The End.