Heya,

Just a quick pupdate: I’ve been framed for some cat’s-tastrophe at the spa and found myself shaking off the blues at Whisker’s Warf Jail. But fear not, for tonight, with the help of Biscuit, Sir Whiskers, and an ice cream truck melody, I make my great escape! The Collar of Carthus mystery lives on, and so does our quest for justice (and treats). Get the tail-waggin’ welcome ready!

Free and slobbery, Rolo 🐾

Listen to the story here

In the clandestine corners of Pawsburgh, beneath the luminescent glow of the full moon, I found myself a captive within the dreary walls of Whisker’s Warf—the local shelter some mistook for a sanctuary. Yes, I, Rolo, a bulldog of distinguished lineage, wrongfully accused, was plotting my escape.

This error in canine justice had begun earlier on the fateful Tuesday. T’was at The Pampered Pooch, where I had been indulging in a modest spa day—I say indulging, but who can truly relax when one’s innocence hangs by a thread thinner than the leash on Sir Whiskers’ neck?

“Scandalous!” Sir Whiskers had hissed, a word that rolled off his feline tongue as smoothly as he did on the finest of Persian rugs. “An English bulldog, framed for thievery!” Indeed, the famed Collar of Carthus, bedazzled with tiny jingling bells, was missing, and all paws pointed to me.

Behind steel bars, I languished, my only crime being in the wrong place at the right time. I turned to my cellmate, a scrawny mutt named Scraps who had jowls that hung lower than my spirits. “Fear not,” I told him, heaving my robust self off the cold cot.

“I’m to be broken out,” I declared. “By whom?” Scraps tilted his head, his ears perking up like the antenna on an old television set. “By the cunning of my mind, the fidelity of my friends, and the curious propensity for ice cream trucks that roam these streets,” I answered with solemn resolve.

The plan was devilish in its simplicity. Biscuit, the energetic terrier, was my ticket to freedom. Before the sun recoiled behind the horizon, Biscuit would dart past Fido’s Feast, yapping in a patterned code—a signal to me that the ice cream truck would pass by Amber Akita Alley within the hour.

As the familiar tune wafted through the air, I knew the guards’ vigilance would lapse, succumbing to the siren call of sugary wares. Sir Whiskers, ever the aristocat, would commence phase two, meandering through Fetch! Toys and Treats, attracting the gaze of the shelter’s staff with his bow tie and antics—long enough for me to enact phase three.

With the shelter distracted and the guards entranced by the distant chimes, I slipped out of my cell, courtesy of the lock I had picked with my tag—constructed at the Spa for Paws, it was sharper in intellect than blade, yet it served its purpose.

Tiptoeing—or as much as one could tiptoe with paws—I made my way to a side entrance normally reserved for deliveries from Paw-tisserie. Just as I reached the door, Biscuit burst through, panting but triumphant. “Freedom, Rolo! It tastes sweeter than the leftovers behind Pup’s Paella!”

Upon our grand exit, Sir Whiskers joined us, leaping from the shadows with the grace of a gazelle—if gazelles wore bow ties and smirked with satisfaction. “To Doberman Dunes?” Biscuit suggested, his tail wagging as if to beat back any lingering doubts of our escapade’s success.

Yes, dear reader, the great escape of Rolo the bulldog might weave itself into Pawsburgh folklore, for I, your humble narrator, crafted a breakout worthy of legend and licked the metaphorical ice cream cone of freedom.

But let us not forget the heart of our tale, the raison d’être of our actions—justice. The Collar of Carthus must be found, for truth, much like the bond between dog and man, should never be left astray. Our adventure was fa from over, but as long as the night was filled with the sound of friendship—and perhaps, an ice cream truck—hope remained ever in our reach.

The End.