Hey Jamie,

Just wrapped up another day saving Pawsburgh’s furriest. Our girl Penelope got into a bit of a ruff spot at Ruby Rottweiler Ridge, but no cage can hold a star for long when Tucker & Co. are on the job. Smooth like a fresh groom and as swift as a game of fetch, we brought her back—no tail untucked. I’m accepting grilled chicken as thank-you’s. Catch you at the oak; I’ve got tails to tell!

Tails up,
Tucker 🐾

In the bustling lanes of Pawsburgh, where fire hydrants gleam like beacons of hope and every lamp post tells a story, I, Tucker the French Bulldog, found myself tuning in to the day’s peculiar frequency. It was a mission kind of day, etched in the smells wafting from Poodle’s Pasta and Puppy Plate—a scent that could wake even the laziest hound. But today, my satellite ears weren’t after the call of grilled chicken; there was a damsel in distress, and, well, how does one say no to a rescue mission on this side of the Kibble Creek?

A crisp morning sun draped Affenpinscher Avenue in tones of gold as my friends and I gathered beneath it. “Waffles, what’s the sit-rep?” I inquired, with a philosopher’s calm but a general’s urgency.

Waffles, paws kneading the ground as if digging up the information, reported, “It’s Penelope the Poodle, gone missing since sunrise. She was meant to do a photo shoot over at Best in Show today, but she never showed up!”

Mr. Whiskerson, ever the stoic enigma wrapped in a fur coat, mused with a tip of his whiskers, “The hour is dire, Tucker. She’s at Ruby Rottweiler Ridge. Saw it in the stars and the leftover sardine cans.”

As the quacks of confirmation came from my feathered friends, this canine caper was beginning to feel like theatre of the absurd. Only, the stakes were real, and so was the drool.

Through the laneways we trotted, past The Groom Room where tales of tails being pampered to perfection buzzed through the air, but we had no time for snips today, only sniffs. Onward to Ruby Rottweiler Ridge, history’s hounds at our heels.

“Now, remember,” I commanded as we approached the rendezvous point, “we do this smooth. No barking up the wrong tree. We get in, we get Penelope, and we get out before any tails start wagging. Capisce?”

“Woof!” Waffles threw me a salute, mistakenly knocking into Mr. Whiskerson, who hissed with restrained elegance.

The Ridge loomed, more daunting than a vet visit. It was said to be run by a rogue pack of Schnauzers, sharp as the clippers at The Pampered Pooch Salon.

Tiptoeing closer, I caught a whiff of citrus—a trap, I thought, but also…Penelope’s least favorite shampoo.

“We’re going in,” my declaration a whisper of bravery, “and keep an eye out for lemons.”

Bristled and braced, we infiltrated the ridge. Ahead in a cage of combs and hairdryers, was Penelope, her coat lackluster, curls drooping in despair.

“Tucker,” Penelope perked up, her voice thread-thin, “I knew you’d come.”

Extraction was delicate, our exit a symphony of stealth marred only by the occasional quack and a well-timed bark.

Breathless, with Penelope in tow, we stumbled into the shade beneath my favorite old oak. Pawsburgh triumphed again, its heroes panting in the aftershocks of adventure.

Penelope nuzzled against me, “Thank you, Tucker. How can I ever repay—”

I cut her off with a humble wag of my tail, knowing Mr. Whiskerson was poised to take the credit with his sardine divinations.

“Let’s just say you owe me a grilled chicken slice,” my words light, my heart reaffirming the unspoken creed of Pawsburgh—no dog left behind.

As the day’s light waned, and I recounted the tale to Jamie with soft yips and tireless eyes, somewhere between the chewed hamburger plushie and the mint-knotted rope, I realized every philosopher-dog has his day. And today, it was Mission: Paws-sible, completed with a touch of that Simon panache: a bit of introspection, a dollop of wit, and a sniff of rosemary under the oak.

The End.