Hey Dad,

Guess who just thwarted a heist at the kennel using nothing but wit and Lemonheads? 😎 Yep, your security Bulldog, Growlbert, saved Yuletide and earned a steak as big as my courage! Grogu sends his regards, too. Can’t wait to share the tail-waggin’ details with you!

Licks and wags,
Albert 🐾🦴

P.S. Don’t forget the steak! 🥩

Listen to the story here

In the dimming twilight of another Yuletide eve, Pawsburgh shone like the buckle on Santa’s belt, a beacon to all canines in quest of merriment and refuge. Albert here, and as to my whereabouts during this festive time – stationed, alas, in a kennel. Not by choice, naturally. Had I the option, I’d be sprawling upon my earthly plot with Grogu clutched between my paws, but fate had prescribed an alternative script.

“C’mon, Albert,” urged Baker, his snout pressing against the mesh of my temporary abode. “Tonight’s the night we stride down Whippet Way! There’s a soiree at Beagle Bagels, cream cheese as jazzed up as a Macy’s window display.”

I heaved a sigh, watching my breath fog before me. “I’ll take a rain check,” I offered, barely able to muster the enthusiasm of a cat in a yarn factory.

“Your loss,” Baker retorted and jangled away, the echoes of his collar bidding me a jolly jest.

Now, as night crept in with the subtlety of a teenager’s perfume, I lay curled upon a borrowed bed, my thoughts adrift. Until, that is, the unmistakable clatter of ne’er-do-wells prickled my ears. A duo of intruders, no doubt drawn by the rumors of holiday fare left unattended by the sleep-bound or the family-bound staff. With a furrowed brow, I hoisted myself, my presence as yet secluded by the fortress of my enclosure.

“Sniff this out, Scratch. Prime pickings for the taking,” said one shadowy figure, trailing greed like a holiday sweater leaves lint.

“Ain’t no hound gonna spoil our heist,” retorted the accomplice. The irony—unbeknownst to them, a stalwart sentinel stood mere yards away.

Fixing my eyes upon the intruders, I contemplated my next gambit. Unleashing a bark louder than a toddler denied a toy, I startled the lurkers from their larcenous intent. “Halt!” I boomed in a tone not unlike a preacher’s. “You shan’t plunder on my watch.”

To my dismay, human speech proved less effective on actual humans. Their contemptuous laughter licked my pride raw. However, their absurd underestimation of my prowess would be their folly.

With the panache of a debonair spy, I nudged a plunger, unlatching my pen with a chink that was music to my ears. A saunter – my preferred mode de voyage – carried me towards the intruders.

“You think you’ve got the chops, do you?” I quipped, channeling a wit sharper than a puppy’s tooth. “Well, you haven’t met a Bulldog with an arsenal of Lemonheads, have you?” With a paw timelier than an eager dinner guest, I nosed the bag onto the floor, and the candies scattered like marbles. Oh, what a spectacle! The thieves went slip-sliding, their limbs awry, accruing incidental karma for every misdeed tallied in their rapscallion resumes.

With the intruders subdued, a serenade of barks rose higher than Pawsburgh’s very own tinsel-topped trees, summoning the snoring kennel staff. And as they gathered ’round, bewilderment etched upon their faces, a sly smile found its way to my chops.

“Let this be a lesson,” I proclaimed, gazing down at the rattled rascals. “Never underestimate a Bulldog, especially one with peppermint breath and a vendetta against vacuums.”

In the aftermath, as staff secured the scoundrels, my reputation flourished like a well-tended Chia Pet. The tale of Albert – defender of the kennel, clever of paw, and brave of heart – would be recounted across Pawsburgh, from Samoyed Square to Kelpie Keys.

And as the early light of dawn streaked across a calm December sky, my Dad returned with tidings and treats aplenty. Home at last, Grogu and I reunited in a celebration that only slightly overshadowed the steak waiting dutifully in my bowl. Thus concludes another chapter in the book of Albert—a downy tale of courage and Lemonheads amidst the magic of Pawsburgh.

The End.