Hey there, human! Just wanted you to know that last night, I became the pawfessional Robin Hood of Pawsburgh. Our pack snatched Snoutshine Collars to share the sparkle with the common critter. Furry masterminds, that’s us! And don’t worry, Sir Fluffington and I kept it classy – no pups or pillows harmed. Paws and reflect on that! ✨🐾 -Tobs

Listen to the story here

In the underbelly of Pawsburgh, where whispers and howls converge in the dead of night, I, Toby the Chihuahua, found myself recruited into the most clandestine operation this side of the Kibble River. It all began on a day when the sun hung lazily over Spaniel Springs, a day seemingly no different from any other.

“Rendezvous at midnight,” Max had said, his bulldog jowls barely containing his conspiratorial grin. “Chestnut Cocker Courtyard.” I had no more idea than Sir Fluffington what illegal buffet we might be sniffing out, but I’ve always fancied me a good mystery. After all, what’s a life without a dash of spice? Certainly not one fit for a Chihuahua of my zest.

When the antique town clock’s paws pointed skyward with a profound assertion that now was indeed the time, I whisked away through the alleys of Pawsburgh, my four-legged compatriots casting long shadows under the glow of the street lamps. Shar-Pei Shores lay still, save for the occasional ripple. There was theatrics in the air, and not even the willows of Eleanor Park would dare rustle too loudly, for fear of disrupting the stage.

Our assembly was peculiar, to say the very least; a bulldog, a cat with swordsmanship finer than an Earl’s silverware, and a rabbit quicker than a rumor. “We’re to commit the unprecedented,” Max growled, his tail wagging with the cadence of the nefarious.

“And what would that be?” I inquired, though in a manner that suggested I already knew it was bound to be wildly inappropriate. “Are we to liberate the treats from Chowhound’s Chophouse or perhaps purloin the perfect pie from Pom’s Pies?”

Max’s snort suggested I overshot my expectations. “No, no, little sourdough. We aim for The Groom Room. They’ve secured the latest line of Snoutshine Collars with gems brighter than your mischievous eyes,” he boasted, as though already draped in the spoils of our caper.

“But I’m no jewel thief!” I protested. There is, after all, a fine line between adventure and tomfoolery.

“Injustice, my dear Toby,” Penny piped in, twirling a carrot like a baton, “is the utter unavailability of such luxury to the common canine. This is more re-distribution than thievery.” Ah yes, we were Robin Hoods with wagging tails.

The complexity of the heist was enough to make Sir Fluffington’s stuffing churn with anxiety. Distractions, lock-picks (one courtesy of Whiskers’ deft claws), and a burrow from Penny gave us a clockwork blueprint.

We infiltrated with grace, or at least as much grace as a bulldog and Chihuahua can muster when not distracted by the scent of Rottweiler’s Ribs wafting from yonder. With a swift sleight of paw, the collars were ours, leaving behind no trace but the faintest whiff of chicken – my signature perfume.

Sunrise found us together at Shar-Pei Shores, where we marveled at our gleaming hoard. “We’ll be legends, Toby,” Whiskers declared with a purr, “misfits turned masterminds.”

Indeed, as the day broke, our pockets were heavier and our hearts full of triumph. Alas, come morning light, the humans would find their dogs a tad more sparkly and their world slightly less uptight.

Ah, Pawsburgh, you’ve yet to see the end of Toby’s tales. Our heist would go down in dog lore, whispered at every backyard and fire hydrant. And as for Sir Fluffington, he’d never looked more regal than with a Snoutshine Collar crowning his plush neck, his faithful conspirator in a heist well-heeled and wholly hound-ish.

The End.