Hey Mom,

Just wrapped up another night in Pawsburg. Tried to settle the score with Clarence at the Patisserie for that missed fritter but wound up wagging tails over a peace offering of the very same treats. Turns out, friendship’s more filling than revenge. Who knew?
Catch you at sunrise. 🌜🐾

Love,
Rebel

Listen to the story here

In the embrace of night, as humans surrendered to their mundane slumbers, Pawsburg awoke, a pulsing orb of unseen canine vibrancy. I, Rebel, of the fluff-imbued nobility and Mohawk-marked countenance, resolved that this eve would see my grandest caper—a vengeance most savory.

A dog’s grudge, let me tell you, doesn’t simmer like human ones. It bounces playfully, like a tennis ball under a summer sun—right until it hits you on the nose. And bounce it did, as I stood before the monolithic diamond sands of Doberman Dunes, a rogue in my own rite.

“Heavens, Rebel, you’re not still on about that are you?” quizzed Wolfie, his golden glow spilling across the grains like molten butterscotch, as we trod beside the undulating sapphire wash of Harrier Harbor.

“It’s a matter of principle,” I chuffed, flicking my tail with flourish. “Clarence of the Puppy Patisserie,” I growled the name as if it held the bitterness of unsavory kibble, “owed me a Blueberry Bone Fritter last full moon. It was to be the zenith of my night, imagine! My paws quivered in anticipation. Instead, I beheld nought but the crumbs of deceit.”

“The crumbs of—Rebel, really?” Bailey’s tone rang with a skepticism only a hound could muster. Her ears flapped like twin flags of disbelief. “Why not let your belly forget and forgive?”

“A Rebel never forgets,” I declared, a paw pressed upon my heart where it yearned for unforgotten tastes and moments stolen.

Our plot was simple. A commando raid on the back entrance of Woof Waffles, a diversion at Happy Hounds Dog Walking, our opposing thumbs replaced with cunning and guile. The scent of syrupy successes drifted in the air as we tiptoed through the twilight.

And then it was upon us, the grand Puppy Patisserie—or as grand as a place that swindles you of delectable desserts can be.

In went Wolfie, his shadow a sly specter through Spa for Paws. He was distraction embodied. Remington, that Red charmer, sauntered a bark or two by the Edible Esplanade, enticing noses from their appointed rounds.

Bailey was my shadow, the Ibesian elegance personified as she winked at me, “Ready to play the ponces, Rebel?”

Ready indeed.

But oh, the thrill of burglary turned into jubilant jamboree as I nose-tipped the door to Clarence’s storeroom, trotting straight into an aromatic arena where dreams dough itself into reality.

“Rebel!” Ghosts couldn’t have startled me more. There, amidst flour-dusted floors, stood Clarence, his eyes wide as he beheld my betrayal of boyish bravado.

“Clarence,” I coughed, my Mohawk wilting in newfound shame, “I—”

“No need for words, young Rebel,” he said, a waggish cant to his tone. “Your eyes do waltz with your stomach too fiercely.”

Beneath the chestnut gaze that marked my face, there lay the guilty knowledge that I had come for revenge but found only my reflection in Clarence’s forgiving grin.

“We dogs must stick together,” he advised, pushing forward a tray crowned with the most succulent Blueberry Bone Fritters. “Besides, who can stay angry at that face?”

So there we feasted until light licked the edges of the estuary. Revenge, I surmised, tastes nowhere near as sweet as a well-spun friendship. Let it be known, though—for the ledger still bears my name—that I, Rebel, may forgive…

But I shall always come back for fritters.

The End.