Hey buddy, night’s caper’s done. Scooped up the Big Bowl with Marlowe flanking – all in the glow of Pawsburgh’s gossipy moon. Turns out, crime unravels quicker than a ball of yarn with my nose and his brawn. This town’s got a new bedtime story, where the pit bull’s mark is a moon, and her bite’s as good as her bark. Catch you at sunrise! 🌕🐾 – Trigger

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The moon was high, its silver glow casting Pawsburgh in a diaphanous veil of enigma as I paced over Briard Bridge. The planks under my paws murmured with the clandestine tread of those in-the-know. I, Trigger, black-coated insurgent with a moon patch for a badge, inhaled the city’s scent, a patchwork of a thousand tales.

Tonight felt different—the air had a charge to it, like just before a thunderstorm when the sky’s belly growls with pending mutiny. I was not one to cuddle under a blanket when the gods bowled; I was the sort to chase their chariots and howl for a good game. It was an ordinary night for the town, with its fair share of scuttles and mystery. For me, it was a night of heist.

The city’s underbelly had rumors whirling like a tempest in a teacup. The Big Bowl, the grand prize at The Doggie Daycare, filched, swiped from under the wet noses of the town. The Groom Room groomers blustered with theories, each more ludicrous than the last, and even the refined snoots at The Dapper Dog Salon couldn’t comb out the tangles of this puzzle. But I had an inkling, a hunch scratching at the back of my ear that wouldn’t be silenced.

The arsenal was simple: wit, will, and a nose that could scale the gastronomic Great Wall, impervious to deception by even the most cunning chicken aroma. The city needed a hero, and tonight, I was game.

I skidded into Pup’s Parfait, where the waft of fruits battling creams tickled my palate. I couldn’t help but think of the scurvy scourge that lemons were, my nemesis, as I nosed past Corgi’s Crepes, the clacking of pans a symphony to midnight munchies.

“Trigger, ain’t you the rogue,” crooned a husky voice from the booth at Labrador Lunch.

“Marlowe,” I barked a greeting. A Boxer with a snout that could sniff out trouble in a monastery. “You heard about the big swipe?”

He chuckled, a low rumble in his barrel chest. “The whole town’s ears perked up. Word is, you’re nosing. What’s the plan?”

“I’m just another hungry hound following her nose,” I quipped, with more mystery than a sphinx’s dating profile.

“I got a tip. Weimaraner Woods, by the stroke of midnight. You ain’t afraid of a little tale wagging, are you, Trigger?”

The challenge in Marlowe’s eyes was a red rag to a bull. “Lead the way,” I sneered, cool as an ice cube.

The woods loomed, shadows stretched like taffy, and the trees seemed to whisper secrets amongst themselves. I glanced at my blue ball, their silent promise of victory reassuring.

“Over there,” Marlowe whispered, a pointed paw revealing two shaded figures. “Do the talking. I’ll flank.”

The figures came into the moonlight—Rex, the Rottweiler with a racketeering rep, and beside him, a terrier with more nervy twitches than a caffeinated clock.

“Nice evening for a stroll, ain’t it, boys?” I began, with that disarming grin that’s melted harder hearts than theirs. “Fancy sharing tales of treasures recently acquired? Perhaps a certain… Bowl?”

Rex’s growl was guttural, a broken engine attempting a threat. “What’s it to you?”

The terrier’s jittery jive made my eyes narrow. I could smell the fear, and behind it, a hint of something familiar… grilled chicken. The game was up.

With a sudden bolt, the terrier made a dash, Rex at his heels, but they hadn’t gambled on Marlowe’s brawn, or my ball, which—once chucked with precision—sent them yipping over tail in a heap.

The Big Bowl was ours again, a trophy in the moonlight. We sauntered off, Marlowe and I, Bright as the dawn in a buckshee town. Back to the lights of Pawsburgh proper, where every dog has his day, and some nights belong to a pit bull with a penchant for grilled chicken and a moon for a mark.

The End.