Yo Ma 🐾,

Just a quick update from your furry mobster, Al CaPone! I’m leading a secret pooch parade in Pawsburgh – think of it as a doggy revolution. We’re swapping out boring kibble for juicy bones. I’m like the Robin Hood of hounds over here! Don’t wait up, we “strike at dawn!” 🍖🌙

Licks & Wags,
Alfredo 😉🐶

Listen to the story here

In the grand republic of Pawsburgh, under the lamp-lit skies of perpetual twilight, I sauntered through the cobblestone streets of Topaz Terrier Town. The name is Al CaPone—the Pug with panache, the bow-wow bigshot, and unofficial mayor of this hidden hound haven. I tell you, this place is a secret only whispered under the lolling tongues of the elite, where furballs like us run the show while our humans rest their unknowing heads.

Tonight bristled with tension; a crisis brewed hot in the kettle, engaging every nerve in my body. As I trotted into the frost-kissed confines of Eskimo Estuary, my mind was churning, a blender of thoughts set to high, spattering the walls with the complexities of my grand plan for doggie dominion. Behind the frosted windows of Pup’s Parfait, our nocturnal Senate convened—a hairy spectrum of canines—over sundaes laced with liver treats and peanut butter dollops.

“Listen troops,” I barked to my right-paw pals—Bitsy the logical Beagle, Duchess the steadfast Dalmatian, and Rex the iron-jawed Rottweiler—”this town ain’t big enough for cats and kibble. We’re going to stage a coup and steer this ship straight.”

Bitsy’s ears perked, her tail a twitching metronome, “So, what’s the big plot, Al? You’ve got us all leashed to your capers.”

“It’s those vexing vending machines,” I snorted. Gone were the waltzing aromas of Butcher’s Bones, replaced by soulless pellets. “We have to bounce the kibble and bring back the bones.”

Nods bobbed around the table. We were more synchronized than a fish with its school, more in tune than howls under a full moon.

Our covert caucus felt the eyes of history, every tail wag an unspoken affirmation of the radical roadmap ahead. Through Labrador Lunch we roamed and rallied the four-legged vote, where the aroma of grilled sardines on toast snaked through the room, a siren’s call to the underdog.

At Pom’s Pies, the counter held more temptation than a pile of postman pants—blueberry turnovers to tune your giblets to the frequency of delight. I sidestepped the feast; focus, like a cat’s stare, unwavering.

With Duchess laying down the scent of the law and Rex’s muscled jawline tightening the nuts and bolts of our mutt manifesto, the shops teemed with chatter. Fetch! Toys and Treats exploded with playthings and conspiracies. The Pawfect Training Center unleashed disciplines not just of sit and stay, but sit and strategize. At The Canine Cafe, coffee cups clinked to the tune of change, hoisted by paws emboldened by our scheme.

But as the clock ticked to the ominous hour of owls and our think tanks ran as dry as an old bone, I yielded to the allure of the infamous pickle jar at the back of Fetch! Strange, I thought, that such a jar would find harbor in our midst—a stark reminder of humanity’s odd proclivities.

“Comrades,” I whispered, as the scent of vinegar nipped at my senses, imploring retreat, “we strike at dawn!”

And thus, under a shawl of conspiracy and moonlight, the dogs of Pawsburgh, inspired by the toothy grin of a curly-tailed Pug, whispered promises of a bone-laden paradise into the chill. A stint of tyranny, spelled out in paw-tread patterns and the crinkling of treat wrappers; this is the tale of Al CaPone, mastermind of mirth and mutiny in the waggish world of Pawsburgh.

The End.