Hey Mom,

Just survived the most bonkers adventure in Pawsburgh! Got mistaken for a cupcake thief, did a stint in the Pound, and then busted out like a total boss with my pals. Turns out, it was a rogue raccoon all along! Who knew my evening stroll would turn into a wild jailbreak? I’m safe, innocent, and steering clear of watermelons for a while. Find the full saga on my InstaPaw story!

Tail wags and victory licks,
Angel (a.k.a Itty Bitty) 🐾🧁🕵️‍♀️

One might assume that Pawsburgh is just an ordinary place, if by ordinary you mean a charming town where dogs, in secret, partake in escapades worthy of their own legends. Now, as for me, I’m what you might call a local celebrity around these parts, an affable pit bull named Angel—though I’ve been called many things, from “ingenious” to “stubborn as a mule.” Yes, I’ve spent many a moon spinning my days at Pinscher Plaza and many a sun chasing my prized ball across it.

But here begins a tale, not of delight, but of woe and wit, the tale of my most unexpected caper. It started like any other day, my sneaky midnight jaunt to Pawsburgh, but ended with me wrongfully imprisoned in the borough’s most formidable fortress—the Pawsburgh Pound.

Why was I there? A misunderstanding—a fragrant one. See, Barker’s Bakery had reported a theft—a sumptuous watermelon cupcake missing. Preposterous to think I’d be involved—I’m no connoisseur of such gourmet. Watermelon? Indeed. But mixed with flour and frosting? Why, I’d sooner chase a cat. Still, the Pound’s stern Bloodhound keepers sniffed me out—convinced I was the bandit.

The injustice stung sharper than a bee on a hot summer’s walk. In the Pound, the food catered not to tastes for those used to Canine Cafe’s simple fare. And the beds? Let’s just say Woof Waffles’ cushions were missed. Enough was enough. I was no pawliday-seeking pup; I needed out. My name was not to be sullied by cupcake thievery!

So there I was, captive, pondering under a sky hostile with lightning, the walls of my cell echoing whispers of a jailbreak. It would require stealth, guile—traits that cohabitated within my sleek gray fur. It was like Bear once said to me at Samoyed Square, as he pushed his specs up his snout, “To canine-wit a plan, one needs more than moxie; one needs a crew.”

“A crew,” I mused. Quietly, I enlisted my merry band of Pawsburghians: Jack, with his rat terrier tenacity, Bear with his plush Shih Tzu wisdom, and Jasper, who despite his pug-waddle, was cleverer than he let on. My cohorts in tennis balls and treats.

We plotted under the glow of the Pound’s flickering lights. At the signal—a thunderclap camouflaging our hustle—Jasper diverted the guards with a comically dramatized limp. Bear forged paperwork declaring my instant release, and Jack chewed through the fence camouflaged by the dark.

But as we made our dash across Affenpinscher Avenue, back to our slice of dog-done-heaven, I couldn’t help but linger outside Fetch! Toys and Treats, where the truth revealed itself in the moon’s silver glow—a line of ants, lifting a crumb of that ill-fated cupcake, leading to a hole beneath the store.

We watched the true pilferer scuttle out, a raccoon with a penchant for midnight bakery sweeps. With a smug chortle, I gathered proof of my innocence—a photo, snapped with Bear’s hidden camera watch, one I knew would absolve my blighted reputation.

As the storm receded and whispers of our caper spread like wildfire through Pawsburgh, the Pound guards scratched their bewildered heads at my empty cell, with only a ball left behind, and rumors of an Angel who flew not with wings, but cunning paws and loyal friends.

Let them wonder at the tale of the break, I smirked, strutting proudly through The Dapper Dog Salon’s freshly painted door for a celebratory grooming, all coiffed and cleaned with not a crumb nor care in the world, save for an aversion to a certain berry… Blueberries.

And to any questioning this account’s veracity, recall what Jack, Bear, Jasper, and all of Pawsburgh know well—Angel’s adventures are never just tall tails, for in our magical town, even the storms whisper stories of the great angelic escapologist.

The End.

Share This Story: