Hey fam! 🐾

Big news from your terrier troubadour, Bailey! Got tossed into the clink for treat-theft I didn’t commit. But worry not! With some mouse allies and a cheddar-filled heart, I’ve sleuthed my way back to liberty. 🗝️ Stay tuned for the tail-waggin’ tales of my great escape – it’s a story of canine cunning and whisker-thin wins!

I owe you all a puppaccino when I’m back! 🐕☕

Catch ya on the flip side,
Bailey the Great Houdoggini 🐶✨

Listen to the story here

As the first hues of dawn brush against Pawsburgh’s alleys and avenues, I find myself a victim of woeful misjudgment. Here I am, Bailey, the terrier once frolicking under the sun, now caged within the cold bars of the Puppyville Penitentiary.

“It’s a mistake,” I bark to the guard, a stern Bulldog with a name tag reading ‘Bruno.’ “I’m known. I’m known for my chases, my cheese indulgences; not for nabbing squirrels!”

Bruno doesn’t waver, his jowls staunch with duty. “Sure, Bailey, and I’m the mayor of Pawsburgh. Rules are rules. No pup’s above them.”

The promenade of despair in my steps reflects off the linoleum floor, a jarring contrast to my usual jaunts down Papillon Promenade. Amidst the symphony of woofs and whines, my cell is no more than a box of shadows, a meager paw’s width away from my beloved amber gleams of Akita Alley. Words of my supposed crime swarm around me like the maddening squeak of a toy just beyond reach; they say I abducted a St. Bernard’s basket of treats.

“Butterflies,” I sigh. “I chase butterflies, not felonies.”

As the day wears thin and my resolve thickens, I frame my thoughts with the precision of a Pawsburgian escapade. Max, with his earth-tunneling bravado, and Sophie, with her enchanting wisdom, would not mope; they would muster!

The key to my shackles must lie within my very lair: The Doggie Daycare, the haven where the squeaky squirrel sings. It’s where Marge, the gracious Beagle with a knack for overlooking a blunder or two, presides over the chaotic chorus of joy. Marge, the unexpected paw in my game of check and chase.

I beckon to a patrol of mice that congregate in the corner, “Listen up, you minute muses of the night. I’ve got a proposal…” A delicate operation ensues, my voice a whisper of secrets and cheese, promising them a venture to Dog’s Delicacies if they oblige.

Night cloaks the shelter, and I slink close to the ground, a shadow dodging light. I pilfer through a crack in the enforcement; the mice have pilfered the key, their stake in the deal clear. As I approach Marge’s quarters, I see her, a silhouette shaped by benevolence.

She stirs, “Bailey? Is that you? At this ungodly hour?”

I bound forward, my pleas a gushing brook of earnestness. “Marge, they’ve pinned on me a crime suitable for a mastiff. I am but a humble terrier with a taste for cheddar and spectacle!”

She takes a moment, peering into my soul with her all-seeing orbs. “Alright, but you owe us, Bailey. A month of narrating toddler tales to the wee pups.”

Freedom beckons, a pleasant breeze flirting with my whiskers. Above, Briard Bridge winks, her arches a haven for the wrongly accused. The mice, now plump with promise, scatter into the velvet beyond.

Somewhere in the distance, the first birds of morning titter, oblivious to the liberty just reclaimed. I fleet down the pavements, the world still asleep; the talk of my escape yet to grace the gossiping circles at Pooch’s Pub.

So here I stand, Bailey, the spirited Terrier of Pawsburg, amidst the haven I call home, my friends my alibi, the night my witness. Misjudgment may have snared me for a moment, but let it be known, for all of twilight’s eternity, that when it comes to the chase – be it adventure, justice, or the last word in the dialogue of the ages – it’s a terrier’s game.

The End.