Hey Mitzy,

Just thwarted a shepherds’ uprising at the Quartz Qimmiq—restored peace and kept The Petfather’s tail wagging. Another night in Pawsburgh’s underpaw nailed down. Sleep soundly, my nocturnal heroics continue…

Savvy sniffs,
Princeton 🐾

There I was in Pawsburgh, the clandestine mutt-metropolis, padding softly down Amber Akita Alley. The neon glow of Pawprint Pizzeria called to me, a siren song for the famished canine. But my belly’s rumbling for pepperoni would have to wait. I had business to attend to – or rather, business found me.

“Princeton,” a gravelly voice called from the shadows. Believe me, in this town, when someone knows your name — it’s never just for pleasantries. I turned to see Rocco, the bulldog whose bark was only shadowed by his bite in the Pawsburgh underworld.

“We got a problem at the Quartz Qimmiq Quarter,” he rumbled, his jowls trembling with concern. Rocco was no regular hoodlum; he epitomized the loyalty of his breed, but even loyalty has its limits. And mine was being tested.

“You see, Princeton,” he continued, scratching behind his ear with deliberate vexation. “There’s a new group in town, muscling in on our game of fetch.”

I twitched my brindle ears, alert. “Fetch is my domain, Rocco. What’s the deal?”

He explained that a pack of shepherds had set up a high-stakes game right under the nose of The Petfather, the bone-a-fide ruler of Pawsburgh’s criminal underbelly. They were double-dipping on the duck pond, my sanctuary, no less. The audacity!

I couldn’t let this stand. The Petfather was not one for competition, and neither was I. After all, my reputation wasn’t built on being a lapdog to insurgents.

My paws carried me to the Quartz Qimmiq Quarter, my bark sharpening in my throat. As I approached, the intoxicating aroma from Labrador Lunch wafted down the street, but it wouldn’t distract me. I had a job to do.

There, under the silky curtain of moonlight, the shepherds were circling, anticipation vibrating in their rough-hewn collars. The leader, a brute named Kaiser, eyed me the way I eye a piece of grilled chicken. “Princeton,” he growled, a morsel of power games in his voice. “Nice of you to join our playdate.”

“This isn’t playtime, Kaiser,” I snapped back. “You’re in my yard, and you’re poaching in prohibited ponds.”

I circled them once, like I would Sir Nibbles before the victorious pounce. It was clear—words weren’t going to settle this. So, I shifted onto my haunches, the universal sign for ‘Bring it on.’ I knew then that stories of my wiry tenacity had not reached these mutts, or they wouldn’t have dared to cross me.

It was a bark-off for the ages. Growls and snarls melted into the night until the shepherds whined for mercy, their tails tucked. Pawsburgh had its order restored, and The Petfather’s edicts echoed in every yap and yowl that night.

With the interlopers dispelled, I trotted back to Pomeranian Park to find Mitzy. She’d want to hear of my exploits, to relish in the retelling as much as the action itself. We shared a late-night feast at The Wagging Tail Bookstore, where the proprietors knew better than to include a hint of citrus in my victor’s platter.

“My dear Princeton,” Mitzy cooed once we were sated, “you certainly know how to keep Pawsburgh in check.”

I flashed my most charming doggie grin. “Let’s just say that in this town, it’s bark first, wag later.”

And that’s the tail-wagging truth in Pawsburgh, where every dog has its day, and under the watchful eye of The Petfather, I, Princeton, have my nights.

The End.

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