Hey Sarah, it’s Junie AKA the Fur-Face of Intrigue here. Just wanted to share that I’ve had a tail-wagging day of undercover ops in Pawsburgh, swapping squeaky ducks with poodle spies, trading secrets with cats, and decoding messages in the waves while surfing. Wrapped it up with a carrot stick victory at Pup’s Poutine. You think I’m just dreaming under the moon, but oh, the tales these paws could tell. 🕵️🐾🦴 Night, Sarah – over and out!

Listen to the story here

On a particularly uneventful Tuesday—or so Sarah thought—the sunlight barely teased my cozy corner before I caught the telltale whiff of intrigue snaking its way through the air vents. Junie, secret agent of Pawsburgh, had a new mission. “Let’s make like a tree and leave,” I muttered to my squeaky duck compadre, white fluff of espionage genius.

Hoisting myself up from my spot with the grace of a cat—and no offense to Whiskers—the day’s adventure called for a visit to Onyx Otterhound Oasis. Disguised as a pampered pooch just longing for a splash, I inquired about the usual: “How’s the water? Wet, as usual, I suppose?”

My mission: to decipher the woofs and barks of international canine conspiracies sifting through this magical town. After a lap around the pool, I trotted into town, the Barking Boutique my rendezvous point. I passed by Barking BBQ, where the mouthwatering scent of smoky ribs could almost compromise my focus.

“There’s Junie!” Buddy barked, waving his tail like a flag on Independence Day.

“Stay sharp, Buddy,” I whispered, acknowledgments in espionage meant to be more nose-twitch than exclamation.

The Barking Boutique was more than a paradise of squeakers and snacks; it was where I’d find my next clue. Fetch! Toys and Treats Manager, a poodle with her curls wound tighter than a spy’s cover story, handed me the package—a new squeaky duck, but this one bore the mark of the paws de résistance.

Back into the sunlight, I couldn’t help but languish in a beam for a mere moment. Espionage waits for no Yorkie, but sunbeams are the exception to every rule. Energized, I made haste to Malamute Mountain, stuffed duck tucked securely beneath my collar. The climb was less hike, more ascension to clarity, each step a dance of shadow and light.

At the summit, I found her: La Chat Noir—Whiskers in her daytime guise, her feline elegance masking a shrewdness that rivaled my own.

“I assume you have the carrot sticks?” I inquired, with as much disregard for a cat’s patience as she had for my musings on the acoustics of squeaky toys.

She rolled her eyes, resembling the cool indifference of a French film star from the 60s. “You’re late, Agent J. I’ve been napping here, waiting.”

A fair exchange, and I departed with the next piece of the puzzle, the coded message within each crunch. A brisk trot down Malamute Mountain led me to Basenji Bay just before sundown, the encoded sounds of the waves offering the next set of instructions.

“I surf; therefore, I am,” I declared solemnly, catching waves and signals, athletic equilibrium second to my aptitude for deciphering watery whispers.

Mission completed, my paws carried me to Pup’s Poutine for a mission debrief. A table for one, I reveled in the spoils of a job well done, tail wagging to an unheard rhythm of culinary crunching. Poutine for the masses, but for this Yorkie, a neat pile of carrot sticks took center stage.

I was a ghost in the night, a shadow in the sunbeam, a whisper in the barking winds of Pawsburgh. With the secret now secured within the tousled tuft atop my head, I made the twilight trek home, just another Yorkie with expressive eyes and stories his human would never quite disentangle from the sleep-tangled reality of daybreak.

“Junie, bedtime,” Sarah called, none the wiser.

As I nestled into my sunspot, now moonlit, the duck let out a final squeak—a well-earned applause for the day’s escapades. And with dreams of daring, I drifted, a master storyteller, off to sleep.

The End.

Share This Story: