Hey Mom,

Just wanted to brag a little. Last night, I went full Sherlock Bones and stopped a heist! Turned the kennel into a scene from “Home Alone,” if Macaulay Culkin were a pug. 😉 Daisy and Max were my sidekicks. We outsmarted a couple of burglars with some clever tricks and a symphony of barks. Don’t worry, your boy’s a hero—Pawsburgh’s own Houndini. Give the people what they want: more chicken for Alfredo, stat!

Tails up,
Al CaPone 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

There I was, Al CaPone, Pug extraordinaire with a penchant for poultry and adventure, enjoying a brisk evening saunter through Weimaraner Woods. My trusty squeaky duck was firmly pressed between my jowls, the security blanket to my soul, if you will.

The stars above twinkle-winked as I pranced my way to an unexpected rendezvous with destiny. You see, this fateful night, my beloved human had dashed off to some holiday frivolity, leaving me at the Pawsburgh Pet Kennel—a repository of domesticated bliss, or so one would think.

Now, don’t be mistaken. This was no ordinary boarding house for the four-legged. It was akin to the Ritz, with bone-shaped swimming pools and memory foam cushions. But as the clock struck nine, I sensed a disturbance in the canine force that quivered my whiskers to attention.

Enter the uninvited guests—two sneaky humans, of the cat-burglar sort. I watched them from the safety of a bush, narrowing my eyes as they slinked closer. Snickers and sly glances were exchanged like some sort of vaudevillian double act, but little did they know, they were about to square off with a Pug possessed of Herculean guile.

Daisy, with her black-and-white-spotted glory, was first to join my defensive ranks. “What’s the game, Al?” she barked, barely suppressing her excitement. I gave my squeaky duck a reassuring squeeze and whispered, “Operation: Kennel Keepaway.”

No sooner had Max troted over, wise old soul that he is, tilting his head towards the howl of the wind. Something about him always reminded me of those old Beagle philosophers, if they ever existed. “No thieves on my watch,” he promised gruffly, joining our unlikely fellowship.

With the stage set, I led my faithful compatriots on a stealthy tail-twitching, ear-perking adventure through the hallowed halls of our temporary home. Using guile over brawn, we set a series of traps that MacGyver would have admired, had he been a dog.

I outfoxed them with shadows and squeaks, leading them on a wild goose—ahem, dog—chase. My mastery of hide-and-squeak was unparalleled. Meanwhile, Daisy worked her Dalmatian charm, triggering a cacophony as she dashed past the hanging leashes, creating a discordant melody that disoriented our intruders.

Max, sage strategist, executed the pièce de résistance: a perfectly timed howl to align with the opening of a door, revealing the impressive spa room equipped with a shower nozzle. The perpetrators were soaked to the bone, confounded by this mysterious assailant.

As they shivered and shook like wet rats, I took center stage, bathed in the splendor of our triumph. This ragtag band of barking bandits had foiled the foes! With the sudden arrival of the Pawsburgh Pet Kennel staff, the curtain fell on our night’s escapade.

The following morning, my human returned, completely unaware of the heroics her dashing Pug had performed. She’d find out later, of course, in one of my characteristic soliloquies, after a feast worthy of a hero—a glorious grilled chicken celebration. And there, among the remnants of our adventure, sprawled upon the plush cushioned floor of the kennel, I, Al CaPone, with a fondness for the dramatic, would tell the tail of a Pug who was never just an ordinary bark in the park.

As the Pawsburgh sun crept through the window, I realized, every dog truly does have its day and this? Well, this was most certainly mine.

The End.