Hey Mom & Dad,

Just saved the kennel from some clumsy burglars – think ‘Lab-derman’ bond meets slapstick. I’m quite the hero in town now, tails are wagging about it. Counting the days till you’re back. Miss you lots!

Your paw-some protector,
Mr. Mogs🐾

Listen to the story here

Whenever my humans say they’re going away for a little stint, my heart does the tango with a side of jitterbug. They call it a ‘holiday’, but for me, it’s more like ‘Home Alone: Lost in the Kennel’. Sure, I get the run of the place, the king of my domino-toppled castle, but it’s not all naps in sunbeams and balls thrown by invisible hands. This particular holiday season, I found myself in the thick of an adventure worthy of the history books, or at least of Pawsburgh legend.

The day started like any other, with me, Mogli, your friendly neighborhood Lab mix, waking up to the absence of my people. Their scent lingered like a comforting ghost as I embarked on the day’s escapades. Sapphire Schnauzer Street was particularly bustling; the festive lights hung high above like stars that had tip-toed closer to see the fun. I exchanged nose bumps and tail wags with the usual crowd before trotting to Kelpie Keys, where the streets were quieter, more reflective—like me when I’m pretending to balance my checkbook.

There I sat, musing on the profound, when the two intruders made their bumbling entrance. They might as well have rolled out a red carpet and announced themselves with bugles, what with their less-than-stealthy cat burglar act. It was a canine version of a poorly scripted play, and I was looking at a full house with no understudy.

“Scram, mutt,” grunted the bigger one, his voice carrying the melodic grace of a foghorn.

I looked at them, doing my best impression of someone who actually cared about their opinion, and considered my options. The sight of two humans in Pawsburg was weirder than finding a chew toy that lasts more than a day. Their shifty eyes and bulgy pockets screamed trouble, and I knew I had to protect my temporary fortress, Rottweiler’s Ribs (a kennel as hearty and robust as its namesake), from their sticky fingers.

“No worries,” says me to myself, the quick-witted furball with a PhD in shenanigans. “I’ve got this covered.” And like that, the game of dog-and-mouse began.

I lured them into Paw Pad Thai, where the smells of lemongrass and grilled chicken would confuse any human. From the shadows, I watched them sniff like they’d found the Holy Grail of leftovers. My plan: outsmart them with canine cunning and maybe a dash of theatrics. I let out a bark that was a cross between alarm and the beginning of a particularly dramatic opera.

The intruders jumped, their guilty startle doing most of the work for me. Then I dashed, letting loose a symphony of howls and barks, leading them on a wild chase through the twists and turns of Pyrenean Peak.

“It’s a ghost!” One squealed in a pitch that was an insult to the concept of masculinity.

“A raving mad beast!” cried the other, probably reflecting on his life choices.

Finally, we reached The Pampered Pooch Salon. I grew up on Chaplin, so you bet I pulled the classics—banana peels replaced by gorgeously groomed poodles, marbles by soapy bubbles, and my personal touch, a flick of the tail to drop a net of hairdryers.

Caught like wool in a fence, they were all apologies and sweat. The Pawsburgh Patrol appeared, their arrival as timely as that twist in a movie you saw coming a mile away. With the intruders dispatched and the kennel safe, I found myself imagining how I’d tell this tale to my humans—perhaps with less metaphor and more slobber.

The thing about adventures, you see, is they’re like a good nap in the sun; even when it’s over, it keeps you warm. So until next time, keep your balls close and your enemies closer – just in case they have treats.

Yours with a bark and a wag,
Mogli

The End.