Hey Mom & Dad, just wanted to fill you in: I’m the unsung hero keeping our little world together. Sniffed out the missing sock, escorted the squirrel off the premises, & made sure everyone’s lap is graced with my presence! Life’s good here, and tail’s always wagging. Love, your Reigny girl 🐾

There ain’t much to do in Pawsburg once the sun sits low and my humans, mom-and-dad, think I’ve hit the hay. But this night weren’t no lazy night. No, sir, for it was the night I took my fate by the fuzzy end of the tail. Any time you want to lay down some rebellion, you best be doing it under a moonlit sky, ‘specially if your kind’s gotta skedaddle back to human arms by morning.

I reckon they got our names jumbled in the human world, so let me set the record straight. I’m Reign, the playful, energetic charcoal Labrador with the curious gaze and a cropped tail—trademark of rebelling souls, mind you. I’m state-certified loyal, obedient if I wanna be, and friendly as a kid with candy. But I’d had it up to my neck floof with Honeybun’s Hound House.

Honeybun’s prized itself on strict obedience, all paw-sitting comity, and not an ounce of mischief allowed. Now, if there’s anything to rile a dog’s dander, more ‘n fleas, it’s oppression. Ain’t no dog worth his biscuits could stay put under such wooly rules.

That there night, at Amber Akita Alley, I collected those who had a will to wag for freedom. First up was Chip, a self-declared professor of fetch strategy. His scholarly nature ensured he brought intelligence and bark to our little uprising. Then there was Bella, a spaniel from Spaniel Springs, soft-eyed but fiery. Last was Duke, big-hearted mutt with a nose for trouble, sometimes literally. My chief generals in the war against tyranny.

I whispered our plan secret-like, curling my tail to hedge our connects from prying ears. “Friends,” I said, “we ain’t gonna heel no more. We’re takin’ Honeybun’s head on, and in the mornin’ we’ll prance tail-high by Shar-Pei Shores!”

The plan was as clear as the path down Biscuit Lane on a sunny-after-rain. We’d barrel through the main yard once the old Basset Hound monitor, Mr. Barkley, took his usual snooze. Then we’d make ourselves scarce, dashing to Chowhound’s Chophouse for a well-earned victory feast. “Freedom ain’t free,” I told them, “but it beats stale kibble!”

We crept through the shadows like curious whispers, nodding at sleepy tutors, tussling mildly with midnight guards. Just as our noses met the threshold to liberty, old Mr. Barkley’s nose twitched itself awake.

“Hold it in your paws, young’uns,” he yowled.

Duke didn’t take kindly to orders, not from a hound whose schedule was set by snoring routines. “Now, Reign,” he whispered, “I reckon it’s time for the final bark.”

A howl went out that’d shake the cobblestones of Amber Akita Alley. Every dog for miles knew; they rose up to join our chorus—a choir of the committed. We were a skip, a lark away from unfurling into freedom’s arms when Mr. Barkley’s gestures softened.

“Ain’t never said I ain’t but a dog discontent with his lot,” he chuckled, eyes soft behind his bark. “No chain left unruffled would be the death of this place, I reckon. Run, doggos, for freedom was always beneath your paws.”

And that was it. The strident notes of our feral freedom still hung in the breeze as we dashed past Shar-Pei Shores. Chip led us to Fido’s Feast where sweet meats and savory treats overran our bowls.

Come morning, when I knew I’d have to skedaddle back to the care of mom-and-dad, I told them—every lick exuberant—that I had been swamped by wide-open lakes and parks rivalling the blaze of the sun; none the wiser were they, for Pawsburg secrets spun a yarn of their own.