Hey packmate,

Just a quick tail-wag to let you know I’ve been framed for poodlesweet pilfering. Don’t believe the bark! I’m staging a great escape with our furry friends to clear my good name. Paws crossed, by tomorrow I’ll sniff the real perp and have my paws on familiar soil. Keep your ears perked!

Loki the Injustly Caged Canine

Listen to the story here

There I sat, in the cold, quiet confines of a cell at the Pawsburg Pound, musing over the injustices that claw at the innocent. I, Loki, of high spirits and roguish charm – wrongfully accused of pilfering Mrs. Poodle’s prized poodlesweets from her bakery. The real culprit, a sly fox of a dog clever enough to leave a black-tipped white tail hair at the scene—my hair. I had been framed.

I recall now the vibrant tapestry of Pawsburg as I lay in my bakers’ abode, a biscuit’s flight from Emerald Eskimo Estuary, my thoughts drifting like whiffs of yeast and sugar. To the casual eye, I was but a sleeping canine companion, yet in the ethers of dreams and dogged determination, I traversed the lively streets of dogdom’s delight.

Nimbus, the gray tabby with the wit to match my own, was first to visit me behind bars. “Rough times, Loki?” he smirked, his green eyes twinkling.

“Rougher than a chew toy after a molar match,” I quipped, yet the grip of plausibility choked my jest. For in Pawsburgh, the lost find being found more frightening than obscurity.

Atlas barreled in next, his golden fur carrying the scent of freedom and freshly cut grass. “The Pound’s no place for you, Loki. Bloodhound Bluffs, Doberman Dunes, they’re calling.”

Their faith was the wind beneath my paws. The escape was not a matter of ‘if,’ but ‘when.’ Our plan: a caper paralleled only by the thrill of a squirrel chase. An exploit requiring all the finesse of a stealthy snatch of salmon from the human’s plate without the accompanying clatter of cutlery.

Night fell; the moonlight played on my fur like a symphony of sun and shadow. I nosed my squeaky captives, signalling our intent. The dragon, the unicorn, and the grinning goblin faced me, their plastic eyes aglow with the promise of yet another battle. “Tonight, my compatriots, you squeak not for play, but for deliverance.”

Redemption came in the guise of Wagging Whisk’s finest meat pies, pilfered by nimble paws and whiskered accomplices. A ruckus arose in the guards’ quarters, stomachs overruling the diligence owed to duty.

The lock on my cage clicked a sonnet of sweet release as I felt the tumblers yield to pressure not entirely endorsed by the law, but thoroughly encouraged by camaraderie. “Haste, Loki,” Nimbus hissed, “adventure beckons!”

It was a jailbreak staged not with the precision of clocks, but with the impetus of heartbeats and panting breaths. Through channels narrowed by shadows, under fences fraught with the scent of forbidden, we wove our narrative of defiance. We were but phantoms skirting Bloodhound Bluffs, the lime-light tailing our hasty paws at Doberman Dunes.

As we lapped the waters of Emerald Eskimo Estuary, my thoughts turned to Collie’s Cuisine, Dachshund’s Deli, and the memory of salmon that salivated the tongue, but lived free from the treachery of asparagus’s bitter embrace.

“The truth must out,” I panted, my dogged pack rallying at my heels. We would clear my name, return the pound to the lost and the wandering – for I was not one of them. I had a baker, a warm-hearted weaver of stories, whose home smelled like warmth and promised pastries.

“You’ll have your day, Loki,” Atlas barked. “The canines of Pawsburgh are your alibi; they’ll vouch for your character, stout and true.”

Indeed, for in the heart of every dog that roams the voluptuous vicinities of Pawsburgh lies an adventure, a story, a truth to be roared. And thus, I would roar mine until every tail wagged in unison to the beat of justice restored.

The End.