Hey Dad,

Got myself into a bit of a ruff spot – wrongfully blamed for a pastry theft and ended up in the Pound. But fear not! With Simba’s smarts and my love for carrot toys, we crafted an escape. Now we’re laying low, plotting to clear our good names. Stay tuned for tail-wagging justice!

Paws and reflect,
Linny

Listen to the story here

I’ll tell ya, the day I found myself in the all-too-stark confines of Pawsburg Pound—it’d curl your tail. The name’s Linny. American Staffordshire, steadfast comrade, lover of carrot toys, and now, an innocent convict in a tale of wrongful accusations.

Samoyed Square had been vibrant that afternoon. I was strutting my stuff, sleek coat glistening in the sun, the white patch on my chest a mark of dapper distinction among the canine crowd. Words on the dogwalk said the Puppy Patisserie had come up with a divine new treat—I was never one for gabbing about grub, but curiosity had me on the leash.

Through the throngs of wagging tails and perked ears at the Paw-tisserie, I caught a whiff. A scent not of food, but of danger. Before my noble snout could sniff out the trouble, yips of alarm went up—someone had pilfered the prized Liver Lettuce éclair!

I’m no Holmes, but even I knew this was barking up the wrong tree. Yet, quick as a greyhound racer, I was scooped up and carted off, protests unheeded, to where the sun doesn’t shine on glossy fur—only cold bars do.

Rest assured, my dear reader, I am not one to let the world go by like a car ride without sticking my head out the window. My devoted buddy Simba, Chihuahua extraordinaire with fur that’d make a mop jealous, came to sniff out my predicament. Bless his little paws; he knew. He knew Linny, the canine caper artist, was no thief—especially of food, and particularly of leafy greens cleverly disguised as pastries.

The breakout scheme? Simba’s audacious plan involved the very carrot toy that set my heart thumping. Hatched over whispered conversations through the chain-link, coordinated with an intelligence they say us dogs lack, we put our escape in motion.

That night, under the silver moon’s watchful eye, Simba strolled down Lhasa Lane, feigning nonchalance while a hidden package swayed beneath his luscious locks. He passed the town’s boutiques with all the poise of a show dog, but made no stops—not at The Snooty Snout, not at Happy Hounds. No, it was the sinister Pound’s fence he slipped beneath, leaving behind only a carrot toy tied with a message: “Bite the end, and pull.”

I tell you, I never savored a squeaker more than that night. Gums working like a day laborer, I chomped until the lock gave way. Simba, with a grin that only a truest friend wears, waved me forth to freedom. Through Mastiff Meadows we sped, two innocent souls reclaiming the night.

As dawn approached and we lay hidden beneath the drooping branches of an old willow, I pondered on the moral. What is justice but a precarious notion, I mused, when a dog can be caged based on unfounded suspicions?

The adventure left me somewhat philosophical—if only that weren’t considered improper for a dog of my standing. The sun peaked, and with it, a renewed sense of spirit. Our names would be cleared; the éclair’s true culprit brought to heel.

But for now, dear reader, Linny and Simba reclined as renegades, fugitives even, yet innocent as newborn pups. Two noble creatures against the world, shedding light on the truths hidden in the shadows of Pawsburg’s alleys. When next we trot among the fanciful shops and savory aromas, our tails will be held high, ears perked for any hint of injustice.

So if by chance your meaty palm finds itself without a furry head to pat, remember us. Remember Linny, the four-legged hero in a city gone barking mad. Remember, and then let those paws meet again.

The End.