Hey Dad, I’ve been busy playing fetch with destiny! Despite a few hilarious detours involving a sneaky squirrel, I managed to guide my human to finding the treasure in the old park. My barks were definitely the star of the show! Hope you’re proud. 🐾

– Wilmont

“Greetings, dear fellows of fur and wag! It is I, the illustrious Albert Einstein, more fondly hailed ‘BigAl’, equipped with both wit and wrinkles—not the kind one acquires from age per se, but those of a valorous English Bulldog. My day in the magical town of Pawsburg began rather eerily, as I was awoken by a text message on my trusty DogPhone at precisely the ungodly hour of Wuff o’clock. Apparently, Ruff Bandits were attempting a brazen steak heist at Chowhound’s Chophouse and yours truly was implored to intervene with his unparalleled, if not rotund, prowess.

You see, I’m not just an ordinary fellow with a taste for playing tug-of-war and lamenting my experiences at the vet. No, my companions, beneath this visage of fawn and white magnificence lies the breed’s stoutest guardian, or as my friends Lilly the pug and Baker put it—The Bone Bringer. My clandestine nights in Pawsburg often entail such derring-do, and so I embarked on this escapade posthaste.

Upon arrival at the scene of gastronomic larceny, I found–to my confounded shock–a squad of Squirrel Spies, mere jesters of fortunes, juggling with T-bones rather daringly. With a ‘Ho there!’ and ‘Stay yonder!’, I made my presence known, and not to exaggerate–as a dog writer oughtn’t–I dare say I was gallant.

Yet I digress, you wish to know of my impeccable modus operandi, do you not? First, envision if you will, my agile yet deliberate plod as I circled the culinary rogues with my Red Jolly Ball firmly at paw. With the tactical precision of a master chess strategist—one blessed with four paws instead of fingers, admittedly—I deployed a cunning plan; drawing, from the depths of my loyal mind, inspiration from countless sessions of Monkey Tug play back at Pyrenean Peak. Pardon the flair, yet one must embellish when recounting deeds of near-superheroic caliber.

The squirrels—undoubtedly unacquainted with vigorous skirmishes against a bulldog who counted sunbathing upon Setter Shore as a delight—were vanquished, driven from Pawsburg’s culinary quarters back to wherever squirreline ne’er-do-wells retire for rest. Resplendent in my ever-trusty baseball cap from Paws and Claws Clothiers, I, Growlbert, graciously reclaimed the steaks and deposited them with Antonio, the resident Chef Labrador, ensuring the night bore no more mischief of meaty malfeasance.

Pawsburg cheered, as is often the custom following such savory triumphs, and I reveled in the adulation whilst sidling down to Mutt Munchies for my customary bowl of corned beef—with a mere scoop of vanilla ice cream for good measure, of course. Such flavors reward a dog of daring deeds, and I savored their essence with every deliberate bite as the sun prepared to warm the heights of Spitz Spire.

‘Twas here, with kindred spirits besides and the promise of new tales told to my dad upon returning home—and the righteousness of duty fulfilled—not a discomfort did I have, bar one minor grievance. If only someone could convince those confounded squirrels to relinquish their war against our peaceful repast pursuits…

Till next you read of my heroic exploits, remember, whether vanquishing foes of the crunch or cuddling with kind warmth upon my dad’s leg, let there be no doubt: I am BigAl, and this town of bark and bustle is generously under my gentle yet determined watch.”