Hey Ma and Pops,

Just saved the Pet Palace from a pair of no-good treats thieves! Set a trap, played canine-cop with my trusty blue ball, and kept the feast safe. They won’t be sniffing around our turf again. To the untrained eye, it may look like I just scattered my toys, but you know your boy Onyx, the Protector of Pawsburgh, defender of all things chewable! Call me The Bulldog Bandit Buster from now on 😎.

Licks and wags,
Ony Extra

Listen to the story here

Right, gather round and I’ll bark the tail of that one time I, Onyx the Bulldog, chanced upon an adventure that bent the very whiskers of fortune. So it was, Christmas in Pawsburgh, when humans festoon something called “holiday spirit,” which, I’ve come to understand, perfectly justifies our sneaking to Garnet Greyhound Grove for our own festivities.

Now mind you, I’m not one to leave my post, especially at the Pet Palace Kennel where we were boarded during said human holiday escapades. It’s a fine establishment, with luxuries that would make even the poshiest Poodle envious. But that night, something pricked up my ears harder than the siren call of Bulldog’s BBQ. Two sneaky intruders were pawing at the back door, aiming to snatch goodies meant for us tail-waggers! I could sniff out a rat a mile away, and these fellas reeked of trouble.

‘Onyx, old lad,’ I murmured, eyeballing my reflection in the squeaky-clean water bowl, ‘this is no time for snoozing on laurels.’ Action was imperative, with a capital “I.”

My trusted blue ball rolled by my side as I plotted. It was faithful as the moon, and twice as bouncy. The intruders, a pair of scruffy looking mutts, had evidently overheard tales in Samoyed Square of the treasures within the kennel – chew toys, gourmet treats from The Woofy Bakery, whispers of Grandma Growler’s secret recipe stashed somewhere within. Too valuable to lose.

Strategically placing chew toys, I created a maze only a Bulldog brain could conjure, then hid behind Newfoundland Nook’s largest armchair, barely a snigger escaping my jowls.

The first goon tripped over a strategically placed rubber duck, yelping a curse, while the second got entangled in a festive leash from Pet Partners Pet Supplies. Did I mention they decked the halls with leashes? Quite effective.

“Who’s there?” one of them quivered, a mere whelp in the art of thievery.

“‘Tis I, Onyx the Protector!” I proclaimed, springing forth like an overfed gazelle, my blue ball of justice at the ready.

Now, I’ve never been one for ball games, but that night I discovered a fastball in my jaw that could rival Sniffer’s Sandwiches’ famed Sub-Slinger.

“Protect the treats!” I bellowed, launching the ball with a skill that had the intruders howling for their mommies. I heard the thud as it connected with the first goon, the squash as the second took an artful print from The Furry Friends Art Gallery square in the kisser. A poetic sort of justice, that.

Scrambling for escape, the would-be bandits collided into Chihuahua’s Chimichangas buffet leftovers, the inevitable trail of hot sauce and refried beans painting a proud portrait of defeat.

The evening’s excitement was far grander than any story spun in the shade of Bulldog’s passive-aggressive pitmasters, and as Pawsburgh’s moon sailed high, the kennel’s treasures remained safe – my conquest complete.

My human, bless their oblivious heart, returned in blissful ignorance, marveling at how their dear Onyx had dispersed his toys with such “enthusiasm” over the holiday. But between us, dear listener, let’s just say, every bark and yip that fateful night is etched forever in Pawsburgh’s clandestine canine chronicles.

And as for those laughable lads, the woeful duo now cowers at the mere sight of an English Bulldog, or so the tales around Samoyed Square go. For when Onyx guards, fiends beware – you just might end up on the wrong side of his blue ball.

The End.

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