Hey Mom, just wanted to paw-sitively let you know that I was the hero in today’s adventure! Chased away the grumpy mailman and found Sarah’s missing shoe under the couch. All in a day’s work for your trusty Louie. 🐾 Lovebug

### The Great Pawsburg Bank Bark-Up

Ever since I could chase butterflies or chew on a squeaky toy twice my size, I, Louie—long-haired Jack Russell Terrier extraordinaire—have been known as “Lovebug” or, more casually, “E” by my friends. But you—dear reader—know me as that charming dog who loves bananas and cuddles and who is, quite unreasonably, afraid of the vacuum cleaner. I can sense you’re all ears—well, more ears than tail, that is.

As the sun dipped beyond the horizon, casting golden rays along Papillon Promenade, the adventure of all adventures unfurled. As it happens oftentimes in this magical village of Pawsburg, what starts as innocent fun can turn into a chap’s worst dread.

We, the Great Three—Mia, Johnny, and Lucy—had just devoured a delightful feast at Woof Waffles, where every bite seems worth barking for. A few tennis-ball tosses later, Mia suggested an extraordinary escapade: an expedition to Pointer Pier to hunt for the elusive treasure of Pawsburg. Legends, you see, spoke of a strange flashing thing known as “Goldie” buried deep under The Whisker’s Wharf Fish Store. It was rumored that this Goldie radiated warmth, not unlike a sunbeam on the perfect sunbathing afternoon.

Off we trotted, a motley crew of pups and tails wagging in raucous enthusiasm. As the sun was skimming the moon, I distinctly remember my paw brushing against Johnny’s, and not one’s pride or poise faltered. Ah, dear Johnny—a Labrador who could fetch the moon if you threw it far enough.

At Paddington Bank—our planned starting point for tunneling our way to Goldie—an unforeseen calamity befell us. A gaggle of bulldogs, led by Bunky the Not-So-Brave, had the same plan. Or shall we say a plan as half-baked as pupcakes without frosting. “We’ve heard about the Goldie from a reliable source,” they clamored, their leader’s eyes as big as pupcups, though perhaps not as irresistible.

The Whisker’s Wharf’s curtains fluttered in sheer gossip, and the idea soon tickled even the whiskers of the sapphire sea. It was all very much like the time Mom misplaced her banana and found it, inexplicably, in her shoe—a riddle wrapped in corn, if you will.

“We must dig,” declared Bunky but proceeded to wriggle his way into insisting we do the barking—fetching, if you please.

“Brave lads,” I exclaimed, “it always appears thus until the earth beneath unfolds its mysteries. Lead on, Bunky!” I nudged, wagging my tail with as much cheer as one can muster when faced with reflexive adventures forced upon observer.

Our paws come loud in unison against the trembled move—the air ringing with color enraptured, much akin to an overture of sorts. Time stretched much like a leash in those final laps until the great “clang” echoed. Our Goldie was a squirrel’s cache filled with glittering acorns. Marvelous! “For the noble squirrel,” we cheered, saluting an enterprise well-toured.

Returning home with no more than whiskers tingling with secret tales, I recounted my advent to Mom. “Why Louie,” she mused upon our snuggle, “do I detect new mysteries in your ever-loyal gaze?”

A sheepish wag was all I offered, as thoughts scampered about what rascals we made, with paw-tales spun for moons. For the Goldie awaits, you see, for moon-lit silhouettes loomed large only in joyful, waggish respect—a world of whispers, and cheekily shunned vacuums. Ah, dear reader, it’s honest after all—a lovebug’s day in grand proportions, isn’t it?