Yo, it’s Pac the Snack Attacker. 🐾 Just masterminded the Great Pup’s Poutine Heist in Pawsburg last night. Outsmarted the two-legged dullards, snagged a feast with the gang, and bolted before anyone was the wiser. Victory tastes like chicken, my friend. The streets will whisper our tail-wagging tale. Legacy, not leash, defines us. 🍗✌️ #CanineCaperBoss

– Tupawc 😉🦴

Listen: When you’re Tupac, the Merle French bulldog with the kind of mug that stops traffic in Pawsburg, you don’t just fetch sticks. You fetch glory.

Now, it came to pass on a blustery evening in Pawsburg, with the humans snug in their ignorance, that I found myself belly-deep in a caper the likes of which the dog world had never sniffed out before. I’m talking, of course, about the Great Pup’s Poutine Pilferage.

I sauntered into Pup’s Poutine under the guise of your average, famished canine. The delicious aroma of cheese curds and gravy swirled through the air like the colors on my coat. Meanwhile, Spaniel Springs was bubbling with the usual pomp, and Eskimo Estuary glittered under the moonlight. But I had bigger fish to fry—or should I say, bigger potatoes to pilfer.

“Evening, Tupac,” growled the owner, mistaking me for just another customer, “The usual chicken-topped deluxe?”

I wagged my tail, playing the part, my eyes scanning for my gang. There was Gnarly the English Bulldog, the muscle; Whiskers the Whip-smart Whippet, the brains; and Duchess the Doberman, our lookout.

“Sure thing,” I barked. “Make it savory!”

The place was a barkin’ hub of commotion, with hounds hobnobbing over haute cuisine. Near Best in Show Photography, the poodle pack was too busy posing to notice anything amiss. Perfect.

At my signal—we all knew chicken was my jazz—we sprang into action. Gnarly knocked over a display of squeaky toys at The Pooch Playhouse, sending the staff into a tailspin. Meanwhile, Whiskers, keying into the safe with a paw-made device from The Pawfect Training Center, was the picture of focus.

“Is it supposed to be this easy?” mused Duchess, as she guarded the rear. And each doggie defector from Vizsla Valley to Rottweiler’s Ribs hadn’t the slightest clue.

“Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes,” I muttered to myself, because I once overheard a human say that and it seemed as good a time as any to be philosophical.

As we moved our loot—a generous assortment of the town’s finest provisions, including my beloved chicken, which, let me remind you, turns my tail into a propeller—we couldn’t help but revel in our own cunning.

“Easy there, Tupac, don’t let the taste of victory spoil the spoils,” Whiskers cautioned as I eyed a particularly savory drumstick, my achilles heel, if you will, in edible form.

I resisted. I’d not jeopardize our mission over poultry matters. We moved like shadows, our paws padding softly against the cobblestone, past Paw-tisserie, where no dog worthy of his collar could resist stopping for a cream filled éclair. But resist we did.

You see, this heist wasn’t about hunger; it was about legacy. The night we outwitted them all — the enigmatic and omnipotent they — and took what was rightfully ours. They could chain us with leashes, but they could never leash our spirits. We are dogs, creatures of the earth, born to run and, indeed, run we did.

Back in my cozy spot on Earth, as Dawn embraced the horizon with rosy fingers, my absent human none the wiser, I chewed on my blue ball of triumph.

“And so it goes,” as a human once wrote in a book I quite fancied sinking my teeth into. The Great Pup’s Poutine Pilferage had gone off without a hitch. There’s a first time for everything, I suppose, and as we dispersed into the nascent light, I thought:

No one, canine or human, would ever believe it. But we knew. And that’s all that mattered.

So it goes.

The End.