Hey Sam,

You missed a spectacle! Took down some bumbling burglars at the Critters’ Cottage with nothing but wits and chew toys – think Home Alone but with more tail wagging. The kennel crew’s safe, and I’m officially the guard dog of legends. Get ready for some heroic cuddles when you’re back. Catch you on the flip side!

Paw regards,
Buster the Brave 🐾

Listen to the story here

Ah, the charm of this delightful little town, where the bricks are laid with the scent of adventure, and the street lamps burn with a glow strictly for the night prowlers with four paws and a tale to tell. I’m Buster, and my narrative is not to be taken lightly, for within these words lies the saga of one crisp eve’s unexpected escapade in Pawsburgh, a whisper away from the mundane life of my day.

‘Twas a night Rosalind Russell herself would have adored—pearls of snowflakes and a dash of holiday spice in the air as my dear human, Sam, trotted out to who-knows-where, leaving me with the illustrious role of manning the fort. It was a fort of kibble and cozy vastness, at a little place known as the Critters’ Cottage Kennel, where momentarily misplaced pets found solace.

The usual crew was there; Whiskers, caught up in his existential meanderings, Sir Chitters, disrupting the peace from his attic abode, and Fifi, with her curls tighter than an over-wound Victrola. I nestled into my throne of cushions with all the grace and aplomb bestowed upon a boxer of my pedigree.

As I lay dreaming of bacon, something amiss brushed my whiskers. A click, a clack, a doorknob turned with such caution, one could almost taste the felonious intent. I knew right away that whatever this was, it was no friend of mine, unless they tended to midnight bacon deliveries—and I had my doubts.

Through the silver veneer of moonlight, two shadows loomed over the kennel, sneaking with the awkwardness of a couple of hounds trying to cha-cha. Thieves! My heart squawked, and I stiffened. The souls of my feet itched with readiness. My gaze tightened on the duo, as did my resolve.

“Well, isn’t this just the canine’s pajamas,” I mused to myself, flashing a wry, unseen grin. “Time to show these intruders that the bark is only the overture to the bite.”

Armed with little more than gumption and the sly keenness granted on my birth in a litter of five, I launched my mission. My first act, an audible groan of the floorboards beneath me—I positioned myself atop the staircase where I had the catbird seat to their shenanigans. A well-placed squeak of my beloved hamburger toy sounded the charge, sending shivers down the spines of the unwanted guests. They cringed, faces as readable as the Sunday comics.

“Equipped with stealth and the oddly strategic use of playthings, who says a boxer can’t change his spots?” I whispered to the empty room, padding forward like a feline on the prowl.

At that very moment, Fifi paraded in with elegance, looking like she had just stepped out of a hedge salon. Needless to say, the burglars were as surprised as a squirrel on a speedboat.

Utilizing the fine delicacies of Pawsburgh’s finest—yes, a trip wire of Retriever’s Restaurant grade sausages—I orchestrated a downfall worth every page of a slapstick script. With a yelp and a tumble, the sorry fellows were caught in a net of my own cunning design.

Pitter-patter went the paws of my comrades, checking in on the commotion—Whiskers with his calculated nonchalance, Sir Chitters cheering on from the chandelier, and Fifi, who, I’ll concede, stood there looking positively divine in the chaos.

As the authorities arrived to haul away the humbled hooligans, my chest swelled not with pride but with the humble recognition of duty discharged. Returning to my window lookout in Sam’s now doubly precious kitchen, I dreamed of tomorrow’s capers—not all heroes wear capes, but this boxer wears them in stripes, with dare I say it, an understated panache.

The End.

Share This Story: