Hey Mom,

Just ducked into the backyard after a wild day being the Robin Hood of Pawsburg. I’m toeing the line between good pup and notorious outlaw, but it’s all for the thrill. Don’t worry, I still yearn for that proud twinkle in your eyes. Also, I totally aced the “steal dad’s pant leg” game again. Tails of adventure and secrets, but I’m your Angel at heart.

XOXO, Itty Bitty 🐾✨

Here we are, rambling wild through the tapestry of my thoughts again, though I often wonder if the bark is mightier than the bite. Right now, coursing down Ruby Rottweiler Ridge like the wind whispers mischief in my ears, with the sun hanging low in the sky—drowsy, I reckon, from a hard day’s glare.

I never fancied myself the rebellious type, but the white against my gray fur must imply some sort of duality. Ah, duality. “Angel the Pit Bull, devoted daughter and notorious Pawsburg outlaw.” Has a ring to it, doesn’t it? Here, where the leash unclasps and collars are but fancy neckwear, I found my inner beast yearning for something more… illicit.

It started with Jack’s idea, really. Jack, the Rat Terrier with spots like misplaced freckles, sparked the ember. “Angel, why chase sticks when we can chase thrills?” Pure doggie poetry.

And the thrills, you ask? I can’t shake off the sandy tales of Doberman Dunes, where once I buried bones, now lay my buried secrets: the meticulously marked spots, known only to my closest pack—Jasper, Bear, and me. Heist plans disguised as casual digging, the rush of finding untouched land ripe for our taking.

Our great escapade, dipped in danger and coated in adventure, led us to Akita Alley. Once a simple passerby, now a prowler beneath the dim streetlights, we unearthed treasures from the sacred dustbins behind Tail-Twitching Treats. Ignoble? Perhaps. But the thrill, oh the thrill of trotting home, treasure in jaws, chins held high.

It’s the unspoken code of Pawsburg, to return to your humans with stories of valor. But who dares tell a tale as dark as this? Yet, here I am, being a good girl, spilling the kibble to invisible confidants whispering from beyond the doggy door.

I remember, between the panting, the obscenely early hours we’d stumble into Barking BBQ, our eyes glazed with the sheen of daredevils, and the savory scent of smoked rib in the air, so heavy you could nearly sink your teeth into it. I slathered my hotdog hypocrisy with tales like condiments, clever fibs told to mom and dad at the end of each day.

But among these shadows, it’s the light I crave—the simple adoration from my mom, that sparkling pride in her eye, reserved for her small, protective beast. And, amidst the crime, dad’s pant leg remains the ultimate heist, the grand tug-of-war.

Now, as my thoughts run unchecked like a backyard romp, I must confess: it’s a world of dog eat dog out here, among the alleys and beneath the restaurant dumpsters. Even the watermelon sweetness shared on a summer’s day can’t wash out the blueberry bitterness that clings to the roof of my conscience.

Swimming away from the person I once was—it’s the pool I can’t seem to warm up to. A pool of ifs and maybes, of what-ifs I hadn’t sniffed out the path to delicious deceit. And that howl, my howl, more haunting than any vacuum’s roar, fur standing on end, echoing through the corridors of my own uncertainty.

So, I press my paws forward, a pup of Pawsburg, carrying the mantle of the bonny thief branded by the white on her chest. And when the night comes to tuck the world in, I dream—not of chased mailmen or buried bones—but of the chance to be unburdened once again, to roam free beneath the watchful gaze of the righteous stars.

For in this town, among the whiskers and wags, my tail writes a tale not of chasing balls but of chasing destinies—being the baddest good girl this side of the doggy door.

The End.

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