Hey Mom,

It’s me, Newman. You’d be proud—today, I led my motley crew of pups to solve the great Barking Brunch biscuit heist at Setter Shore. We sniffed out Collie-sin Spurs and brought those tasty treats back home safe and sound. Turns out, my days are anything but naps and kibble!

Love,
Fatty McFatterson 🍪🐾

I’m Newman, saddle up, cowdogs, ’cause it’s high time I spun you a tale from out yonder in Pawsburg. Today, we tip our hats to that one wild escapade where my pals and I roamed Setter Shore like outlaws chasin’ the sunset in the Old West.

“So, there we were,” I’d declare, oftentimes reliving the saga by the flickering embers of my fireplace back home to my human mom, who, bless her heart, thinks I just nap all day. But nah, my posse and I had greater things to do—like herding wayward squeaky toys and preventing a peanut butter heist.

It was a late afternoon when Babs, our spunky Jack Russell Terrier with springs instead of feet, burst into The Dapper Dog Salon. I was just getting my tan ears primped when she skidded to a halt.

“Newman!” she yelped, her eyes wide with urgency. “Trouble’s a-brewin’ at Setter Shore. Someone’s made off with the Barking Brunch biscuit supply!”

Well, you might as well have told me someone turned my cozy dog bed into celery. With a slow, gravity-defying huff, I hauled my considerable bulldog frame from the grooming table and trotted out, commanding a shadow of cute chaos.

We collected Bruno, our peace-loving Labrador Retriever, who was drooling over a three-day-old stick he found by Weimaraner Woods. “Leave the stick, Bruno; duty calls,” I grumbled in my usual dry manner.

We galloped (alright, waddled in my case) down Affenpinscher Avenue, straight on to Setter Shore. The scene was somber. Biscuit-crumb tracks led everywhere, pointing to a dastardly chase through cattails and puppy huts.

Deputy Barker from Barker’s Bakery was in a tizzy. He twisted his Saint Bernard mustache—yes, he has a mustache—and pounded his stubby legs in a dramatic flair. “Sheriff Newman, you’re our only hope!” he barked.

After a scrutinizing snifferoo, I caught a whiff that wasn’t just the tantalizing aroma of peanut butter biscuits—nah, it was the unique blend of deceit with a dash of wet dog. “This here smells like Collie-sin Spurs,” I muttered.

Babs zipped around, setting up perimeter sniff checks while Bruno pondered existential questions like, “Why would anyone steal biscuits?”

“Listen up, folks,” I announced, channeling my inner dog-sheriff. “We’re going on a treasure hunt for these here biscuits, and we will sniff out justice. Stick together; trouble likes separation.”

We pawed our way to the edge of Setter Shore, where Collie-sin Spurs often lurks. The sneak had left a trail leading further into the rugged ravines of Weimaraner Woods. Babs flipped and twirled through underbrush, popping up like she had springs instead of kneecaps.

It was under the ancient Dogwood tree, where old tales of bones long buried by forebears, did we find Collie-sin Spurs—the scoundrel. He was juggling biscuits like he was auditioning for a pup circus. Or maybe just showing off to the local Dachshund crowd.

“Hold it right there, Spurs!” I barked, my gruff voice making the leaves quiver. With my tan patch gleaming in the dappled sunlight, I stood firm—resolute as a sunflower in July. “Return what ain’t yours or face the wrath of The Dapper Dog!”

Spurs froze mid-juggle. He dropped the biscuits, ear-tails drooping. The Dachshund crowd sighed, partly disappointed by the lackluster show.

“Boss… I—I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” Spurs stuttered, ears flat against his head.

“No lies,” Bruno rumbled with his saintly baritone.

“Now, git,” I ordered, tapping my considerable paw with an air of judicial finality.

Collie-sin Spurs scooted his tail between his legs and bolted out of Dodge. With him went the biscuit crisis of Setter Shore.

As we trotted back triumphantly, I mused about the taste of justice and peanut butter biscuits waiting at Barking Brunch. My tousled fur and not-so-fetching tan patches were a badge of a day well-spent.

So, you see, whether it’s keeping the peace or sniffing out truth, the adventures here in Pawsburg are as wild as that Old West, yessiree!

The End.