Hey Mom,

You won’t believe it – today I turned detective and saved Pawsburg from a chicken heist! The Great Kibble Caper’s got nothing on us now. Busted some Kelpie crooks and put chicken back on the menu. Who’s a good boy? Apparently, me! Dinner’s gonna be clucking great tonight.

XOXO, Que 🐾

Let me tell you about the day Pawsburg got turned on its furry head and I, Que, found myself in the thick of a biscuit heist that would have made the Great Kibble Caper look like a puppy playdate. A day so unfathomable, it’d leave its mark on the canine crime logs forever.

It was one of those typical, lazy afternoons in Vizsla Valley where the sun hung high like a golden disc and I, as the epicurean bulldog that I am, had a craving that could only be satisfied by one thing: chicken. So I trotted off to Beagle Bagels, pondering whether I should go for the Chicken Schnitzel Sub or make a straight dive for the Chicken Caesar Bagel, go heavy on the parmesan.

Upon my entrance, however, instead of the usual mouthwatering aroma that greeted my nose, a palpable tension sliced through the air. In the corner, a disheveled dachshund whispered furtively to a spaced-out spaniel. They stopped, eyes darting my way. Weird, right?

“Hey, Que, old buddy!” Gusto, the golden retriever who ran the joint, barked with a nervous twitch in his tail. “No chicken today, big pal. How ’bout our signature tofu scramble?”

Tofu?! On a day like this? I scoffed but kept my cool, noticing the furrow in his brow, almost as if—aha!—he was hiding something. Gusto was like the Oprah of Pawsburg; if he couldn’t fix your problems, no one could. Unless today’s problem involved chicken, apparently.

Before I could grill him further, a commotion outside rerouted my attention. Dogs of all breeds scrambled in a flurry of tails and ears down Bark Drive. There I spotted Ruffles, looking particularly sheepish, and a winded Biscuit who skidded to a halt beside me, panting, “Que, the Chicken Treaty of Terrier Town has been breached!”

I blinked, utterly baffled. The Treaty was Pawsburg’s pride, a promise of peaceful poultry sharing amongst all its furry citizens. Who would dare?

With a sense of duty (and my stomach protesting), we launched our own investigation. Our first stop, naturally: The Pawsome Pet Pharmacy, where the gossip flowed as freely as the discounted dewormers.

“Whatcha got?” I asked the chatty corgi pharmacist who loved a bit of drama.

She leaned over the counter, voice hushed. “A gang from Kelpie Keys is in town. They’ve been stockpiling chicken behind The Tail Wagger’s Tailor, planning to control the Pawsburg poultry market!” Her eyes widened.

I couldn’t believe it. My fluffy cohorts and I exchanged glances—operation Reclaim the Roost was underway.

Cut to us skulking through Terrier Town, dodging the enigmatic street pups, until we finally reached the rear of the tailor’s shop. And, oh, the sight! Crates upon crates of pilfered poultry! Who knew chicken could look so… criminal?

But how to bust these monopolizing mongrels and restore the chicken balance of Pawsburg? Simple. We needed to orchestrate a distraction—a spectacle so confounding that those Kelpie hoodlums wouldn’t sniff out our plan.

“Look, it’s the legendary Poodle’s Pasta Chef offering free samples of his new dish, Linguine al Limone!” Ruffles barked across the street, the acidity of the false promise catching in her throat.

The Kelpie gang sprang up. Citrus? In Pawsburg? Unthinkable. They dashed toward the commotion, hook, line, and squeaker.

In their feisty furor, we moved in, Biscuit the Terrier with his heart thumping, Ruffles with her fur all fluffed, and I, Que, with a wag in my tail and a growl in my belly. We liberated those chickens, returned them to their rightful places, and restored the Treaty all before dinnertime.

What did I tell Gusto? I looked him straight in the eye and said with all the bravado of a bulldog pirate, “You can keep your tofu, my friend—it’s going to be a chicken night.”

And remember folks, even when feathers get ruffled in Pawsburg, it’s wingmen like Ruffles, Biscuit, and yours truly, Que, who make sure that no tail goes untwagged and no crime goes unsniffed.

The next time you spot me under the old oak with a squeaky toy and a chicken wing, know this: behind the patch lies a paw that got chicken back on the menu.

The End.