Hey Mom,

Just pulled off an epic heist at Canine Café with Rocco & Penelope. Scored some mega treats and squeaky ducks without a hitch! It was pure, tail-wagging, ocean’s eleven-style action. Call me the Houndini of Pawsburgh! You’d have laughed, I swear. No cheese involved – who do you think I am?

Catch you at dinner,
Bashi 🐾😎

Listen to the story here

Chapter from the Diary of Sebastian, Pawsburg’s Gentleman Rogue:

I remember the sun dipping below the cerulean horizon of Pawsburgh when I concocted the scheme that would crown us the whispers among alleys and the heroes amongst mutts. Lying there on Lhasa Lane, I mused, my tan spotted back warmed by the cobblestones, as Rocco strode toward me with a gait only a black lab of considerable charm could possess.

“Sebastian,” he barked, his panting brushing my ear, “the treats at Canine Café are tempting fate behind that glass. We gotta hustle up a plan and liberate ’em. For justice. For glory. For the evening munchies.”

I couldn’t suppress a chortle. My tennis ball, a loyal squire in my grand adventures, sat snugly by my paw as I contemplated our Dog Vinci Code. “Confectionery caper,” I licked my chops, “has a ring to it, my dear Watson.”

“There’s your problem, Seb, these escapades need no rings. Just paws and resolve,” Rocco replied, his eyes glinting with the first stars of the evening.

So, here’s the shtick – The Canine Café, a trove of maple bacon biscuits, salmon-flavored kibbles, and the pièce de résistance – a new shipment of squeaky ducks remarkably akin to my beloved ducky. Excluding cheese treats, naturally – what self-respecting canine palate could stomach such a thing?

Our setup was as scrumptious as a Pom’s Pie – sly, ingenious, and a touch of the dramatic, Neil Simon style. Timing was crucial; we had to strike when twilight touched Spitz Spire, casting a labyrinth of shadows perfect for clandestine capers.

“Synchronize your tail wags,” I quipped to our crew, “And remember, the bark is louder than the bite.”

Swaggering down Basenji Bay, our motley crew was a sight – Rocco, as the brains; me, with the street cred; and a sashaying poodle named Penelope – the best stealth tail in town. Mastiff’s Meals ambled by, but the scent of our ambition was far too savory to dally.

The Groom Room sat adjacent to Canine Café. Penelope, with her coiffure gleaming like dog show royalty, daintily persuaded the sleepy sheepdog on guard duty. Her preening provided the perfect smokescreen. One bat of her lashes, and the place was ours.

“I’ve seen better acting in a flea circus,” Rocco mumbled. “Where’s the finesse? The romance?”

The diversion up, we slipped into the Café, navigating to the treasure trove of treats, our tails composing an overture of mischief. Not an ear twitched as my paws settled on the bulging bag of ducks and delectables.

“Time to jet,” Rocco signalled, his eager eyes mirroring mine in a dance of victory.

But here’s the wrinkle – as soon as I grasped the loot in my mouth, a ruckus! The unmistakable commotion of every canine’s dream – an impromptu bark-off down the block. The treasure momentarily forgotten, we were philosophers first, scoundrels second. A debate ensued on the merits of a harmonious howl versus the solo sonnet of a singular bark.

We emerged into Spitz Spire’s shadow with grins and tails high, goodies secured. An anecdote for Pawsburgh’s annals, or, at the very least, a bark-worthy event. Our owners would never know where those extra treats spawned from; only that we had returned with tales tinted with bravery and a touch of the fantastical.

Sebastian – oozing charisma, cunning, and an affinity for the extravagant. Over dinner, I’d muse on my next chronicle – perhaps, Rottweiler’s Ribs? The world’s our oyster – sans the cheese, please.

The End.