Hey, it’s Phoebe (or should I say Pawsburgh’s stealthiest detective?). Just saved Rusty from the clutches of Whiskers – the cat burglar with a taste for trouble. Led a daring daybreak rescue with Spot’s smarts and Muffin’s chaos. Dodged vacuum cleaner shadows and avoided green beans like a pro. Pawsburgh is safe once more, but this tale stays between us and the fire hydrant. Tail wags and triumphs, Phoebe 🐾🕵️‍♀️✨

There comes a time in every dog’s life in Pawsburgh when the pull of adventure outweighs the comfort of the familiar – and for me, Phoebe, that time was a Wednesday.

I remember it was an ungodly hour, when most of my canine comrades were lost in dreams of unguarded butcher shops, but not I. My hazel eyes, keen as ever and gleaming with that iconic glint, caught the faintest whimper carried by the winds from Weimaraner Woods.

I hopped from my perch atop the knoll, where I was busy punishing a rubber chicken for being underfoot at the most inopportune times. A foreboding chewiness in my toy that morning seemed to pronounce that the day was destined for more than just guilty pleasures alongside Spot, and Muffin’s regularly scheduled mayhem.

No sooner had I contemplated the situation than Muffin bounded over, breathless with gossip, “It’s Rusty,” she panted, “he’s been dognapped!”

Rusty, the rambunctious retriever, dognapped? It seemed as implausible as the notion of a cat doing a day’s honest work, but we’d all heard the rumours of a cat burglar named Whiskers with a vendetta against bark-kind.

Spot donned his monocle in disbelief, “We must launch an expedition at once. Phoebe, are you with us?”

“Try and stop me,” I said, feigning calm, but inside I knew we were diving nose-first into what would be politely described as a spectacle.

Our first obstacle was Blue Basenji Bay. As we approached, the daybreak’s light played against the water, and Spot mused, “Rusty could be on the other side by now, contemplating the quiet dignity of capture.”

“Dignity?” sniffed Muffin, “Have you seen Rusty with a peanut butter jar?”

We pressed on to Harrier Harbor, where the scent of Chihuahua’s Chimichangas wafted temptingly through the air. My stomach growled louder than Spot’s pretend growl he uses to sound menacing. But there was no time for food; we had a retriever to rescue.

The trail led to Weimaraner Woods, a place both wondrous and fearsome. Muffin’s energy was undeterred, Spot’s leisureliness was surprisingly spry, and I, wide-eyed and jumpy at every snapping twig, imagined every shadow to be the looming presence of that dreadful vacuum cleaner.

After what felt like hours, or perhaps just an overlong commercial break, we reached a clearing and there he was, Rusty, tied to a tree with a rather unfashionable jump rope.

Whiskers, the villainous feline, appeared, “Looking for something, pooches?”

I stepped forward and said with an assertive whimper, “Rusty doesn’t belong to you. And, no cat, no matter how dastardly, will withstand the solidarity of Pawsburgh pups!”

What happened next was a blur – Spot distracts with philosophical quandaries, Muffin’s tornadic energy sending leaves and fur in a tizzy, and I, emboldened by the stakes, pounced with the precision of… well, of a Beagle who really doesn’t want to go back to chewing rubber chickens.

When the dust settled, Whiskers was tied up, looking rather bemused, and Rusty was free. We returned to town as quietly as we had left – no point waking the humans, after all.

To celebrate, we made a stop at the Canine Café, where I avoided the green beans (as much as Rusty tried to playfully hide them in my bowl) and listened to Rusty’s melodramatic thanks.

As I watched the sunrise the next morning, Rusty safe and Muffin already tempting another round of chaos, I thought, “Well, that’s one more tale for the humans. If only they knew the lengths we go to keep Pawsburgh pawfect.”

The End.