Hey Dad,

Had a wild day as the detective bulldog in Pawsburgh—collar stolen, teamed up with Biscuit, and outsmarted a thieving Saluki at the Bark-n-Bite Bistro. Got my collar back, served some canine justice, and scored a cookie treat coupon. Always on the paw for adventure. Woof!

Beans/Boshumbuddy

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You wouldn’t believe the scandal that unfolded in Pawsburgh today. Leastwise, you might not, unless you know about the curious caper of the crinkly cookie caper—oh, it’s a tale I’m almost too miffed to mutter, but for the sake of justice, here goes.

‘Bout yawn-break, I trotted through the dreamy streets of Pawsburgh, sniffing the twilit air perfumed with the scents of Shepherd’s Shawarma and a fresh batch from Puppy Patisserie. I felt alive, more alive than a squeaky toy in the jaws of victory. That was until I sauntered past The Pampered Pooch Salon, where my reflection in the window showed me something was amiss—my collar! It had been… plucked! And not by me!

This was no ordinary collar, mind you. It was my signature, red and white like me noble coat, and it held a charm—a cookie charm—that represented me boundless affection for, well, cookies.

I felt as bare as the day I was whelped, and I tell you, I was more outraged than the time the vacuum cleaner thought it could sneak up on me from behind. A declaration of war was in order, and I was just the bulldog to bark it.

First, I needed a wily companion, who knew the ins and outs of the Pawsburgh black collar… I mean, market. At the Barking Boutique, where the latest fashions make humans wish they had tails to wag, I found Biscuit—a wiry Whippet with more street smarts than a guide-dog in his prime. I told him my sorrowful saga, and Biscuit swore to aid me, on account of him owing me a favor for that time I didn’t chase him down Whippet Way.

Our first clue was at the Fetching Feline Pet Emporium, a place so replete with catnip, you’d think they were trying to seduce the moon. The shopkeeper, a Chihuahua who’d seen more summers than I’ve chased balls, narrowed her eyes as I growled my inquiry. Turns out, she’d seen a collar just like mine, just this morning, sported by a Saluki by the name of Silken Sam. A rogue if ever Pawsburgh panted one, and with a penchant for pawing prized possessions.

Biscuit and I hatched a plan so cunning, you could stick a tail on it and call it a weasel. The Saluki was known to frequent the Bark-n-Bite Bistro, a dining establishment of ill-repute where the steaks are rare and the collars, rarer. There, Silken Sam held court, lording it over the other dogs with my splendid collar gleaming ’round his neck like a beacon of his dastardly deed.

With a performance worthy of Pawsburgh Theatre, I feigned disinterest in the stolen goods, instead indulging in my celebrated amour for cookies at a nearby table. Meanwhile, Biscuit staged a distraction that left Silken Sam unguarded. I leaped into action, snatching back my collar as swiftly as a cat in a dog’s game of chase.

As I fitted the collar around my noble neck, where it belonged, Silken Sam’s eyes grew wide with disbelief. It was his turn to feel the collar, and me hearty roar was enough to remind all of the Pawsburgh code—’Thou shalt not filch from thy furry fellow.’

“‘S a fine thing,” I said, with the sort of grin that only comes when things are—quite emphatically—settled. “To have what’s yours returned, and to remind the usurpers that even in Pawsburgh, justice has teeth.”

With Biscuit by me side, I strutted out of that bistro, every bit the dog I always knew I was. And what’s more, Silken Sam didn’t just relinquish me collar, he left something else—a treat coupon for Puppy Patisserie. Oh, my humans might think me day was spent sunbathin’, but in Pawsburgh, I’d avenged the theft of not just me collar, but me pride.

And with that, I wag my tail to you, dear friend, for sometimes a day in the life of a dog can be unexpectedly… thrilling.

The End.

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