Hey Mom,

Cracked the case of my MIA toy at work – turns out it became shop décor at the Barking Boutique! Traded an old bone to get it back, and now I’m the Sherlock of squeakers in Pawsburgh. All in a day’s tail-wagging adventures. 🐾

Hugs and head pats,
Thorin 🐕‍🦺

Listen to the story here

The sun dips below the skyline of the majestic Pawsburgh, casting an amber glow on Cavalier Cove. Just another day ends at ‘The Doggie Daycare,’ the epicenter of canine commerce and the workplace of yours truly – Thorin, the Brindle Kangal with the keen eye and the heart that beats for the thrill of the purebred hustle.

Now, let’s retreat back to when the nine-to-five routine got stirred by a peculiar incident, a tale fit for the Pawsburgh Gazette, if ever they’d cared for the truth behind the fluff.

It all started as I, Thorin, sat at my desk, or more notably, my claimed territory amidst the clatter and commotion. Surrounded by paw-pers and reports, I found myself lost in thought – that well-chewed toy of mine had gone missing. It was – is, a thing of beauty, a reminder of simpler times between the conference calls and the keyboard tapping of claws. My rope, my squeaky-footed muse.

Seeking wisdom, I turned to the sagely Labrador next cubicle over, who replied with Yoda-esque vagueness, “Chew on this, you shall not, until you find it, you do.”

Oh, my quest began thus, a blend of sure-footed sleuthing and subdued declarations of, “Has anyone seen my…” met with shrugs and nary a glance.

A stroll down to Bichon Boulevard led me to Mastiff’s Meals, where I, with a machismo that bulldozers envy and Saint Bernards respect, asked the chef if my scrumptious protein delights were on order, tail wagging in anticipation. Denied my steak, I settled for chicken – roasted, not fried. We Kangals watch our physique, after all.

Meanwhile, at Opal Pomeranian Park, the cameraderie was pawsatively electric, a gaggle of pawffice workers yapping about bonuses and barkdays. But my patrol was for a finer matter; espionage on the small scale – where was my beloved toy?

The terrier, spark-plug of our enterprise, teased, “Thorin, old boy, check Best in Show Photography. They’ve got toys up the wazoo since that last ‘pupparazzi’ spree.”

Lo and behold, a blind lead turned spectacle when, striding into The Barking Boutique, I spied it – my rope, hung in showcase, a mistaken ‘item of the week.’ The store clerk, a sprightly spaniel, pranced nervously as I, in mockumentary fashion, addressed the invisible audience. “Gentlepups, witness the grand larceny, the grippable, chewable evidence of my disenchantment. Perturbed, I am!”

A barter was struck, an old bone for my treasure, and I left, dignity coiled around me like my brindle coat, my toy aloft like Excalibur itself. My friends, the motley Pawsburgh ilk, cheered as I paraded past Dog’s Delicacies. We shared our stories, each more embellished than the last, laughter echoed and tails beat like metronomes set to the rhythm of our joy.

The work summit I chair every dawning day couldn’t hold a candleflame to the spark of the hunt. In the goofy wisdom of the Labrador, “Every leash has its day.”

Alas, the day wanes, and here I sit, typing the minutes of this mockumentary escapade, the stolen, now reclaimed, rope by my side. Those citrus-toxin treats, they could await my blunt verdict; for now, the screen fades.

Till tomorrow, Pawsburgh. I’ve tales to tell, chews to gnaw, and a dogged day’s work to plot with a wit as sharp as my canines. Until the morrow, this has been Thorin – and my narrative loom spins ever on.

The End.

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