Hey there! It’s Ramses, Pawsburgh’s fur-covered mastermind. Just outfoxed Brutus, the Bulldog, with a faux olivey feast after his pizza ploy. Saved my rep at Pawprint Pizzeria and served up a side of just desserts. Life’s barkin’ good when you fight sly with slyer. 🐾 Keep your nose clean and your schemes cleaner! – Ramses the Rascal

Oh, hello there! You’ve caught me at quite the moment, in the midst of Pawsburghian high drama. I’m Ramses, yes, the Saluki with the envy-inducing fur, and right now, my tail is practically thrumming with indignation. Gather ‘round, let me indulge you in the latest escapade—full disclosure, it’s a doozy.

I was lounging on Pointer Pier, you know, where the waves gossip against the shore, when I heard the news—my arch-rival, Brutus, the Bulldog, had struck again. This time at the one place I adore: Pawprint Pizzeria. Yes, I know, it’s fabulous. They put extra cheese in their garlic bones—those garlic bones! He’d hoodwinked them into believing I detested their delicacies, turning my usual order to… you’d never guess… olive toppings. Olives, the very antithesis of my culinary joy!

So, with my reputation and palate at stake, it was time for a cunning counterstrike. There’s nothing quite like the sweet, sweet taste of revenge, especially when it’s layered like a lasagna. And boy, do I know how to cook up a scheme that’s less spaghetti and more… well, perfectly al dente angel hair.

First stop, Barkuccino boost from Pooch’s Pub, then onto The Tail Wagger’s Tailor; every dramatic turn of events demands attire to match. I flaunted in, whispered, “Operation Regale” and was suited up in a silk bandana faster than you can say “Wag”.

With the grace of a gazelle in a telenovela, I strutted my freshly-clad self into Onyx Otterhound Oasis. There I found Brutus, mid-gloat, surrounded by chums at his proverbial round table, no doubt spinning wild tails about my ‘olive obsession’. With the suavity of a secret agent, I leaked news of a faux banquet at Cocker Courtyard in Brutus’s honor, hosted by moi. It was irresistible bait; his vanity matched only by his appetite.

Now for the pièce de résistance. As dusk descended like a soft applause, Brutus swanned into the courtyard, anticipation hanging on him like drool from a Saint Bernard. The soi-disant crowning jewel of the feast? The olive-est, most gag-worthy cake the world has ever seen. A four-layer monstrosity, a monument to the olive and Brutus’s deceit bit by bit.

Oh, you should’ve seen him—stiff as a frozen leash, while the crowd gathered, snickers turning into howls of laughter. My furry friends, who’d twigged to my plan, couldn’t hold back. Neither could I, delivering a line that would have made Mindy Kaling proud: “Hope you like olives, Brutus, ’cause seems like you’ve got a taste for serving them up!”

I, however, had ordered some sublime little steak ‘n’ cheese cupcakes from Best in Show Photography—done up real cute—with snaps of each guest, including one of Brutus and his olive-adorned gift. The crowd was while I, being an exemplary host and all, handed them out, pairing them with tales of adventure and friendship, tales alive in the wagging tails around me.

Brutus, the poor sod, got his comeuppance, green as the olives he hates—I’ve seen him sneak them out for us pooches smart enough to barter. As for me, I reclaimed my place as Principal Pooch of Pawprint Pizzeria and something else—a little morsel of wisdom and a reminder that, in Pawsburgh, cunning always paws it forward.

That’s all there is; end of bone-chilling tale. And next time, try the garlic bones, hold the olives—unless, of course, you’re Brutus.

The End.

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