Hey human,

Just saying paws-up from Pawsburgh, where I channeled my inner cowboy and saved the town from a veggie vendetta. Turns out, Bandit Beagle was just keeping the streets broccoli-free. Brokered peace with a bark-and-bite summit, and now we’ve got a treaty signed with tail wags. Tails are high, like my spirits after that sandwich. Stay tuned for tomorrow’s escapades!

– Neko Sheriff 🤠🐾

Listen to the story here

As the sun spilled its golden yolk over the horizon of Pawsburgh, I, Nekoda – the hound with the artful patchwork of chocolate and gold, sauntered towards Buttercup Park with my compadre Marshmallows trotting on my left and Goldie pondering the meaning of ‘fetch’ on my right.

It was another fine morning, or so I thought until we stumbled upon a larger-than-life “Wanted” poster pinned to the ancient oak by The Howling Husky Hardware Store. The face on the poster was none other than the infamous Bandit Beagle, a notorious veggie thief feared amongst the herb gardens of Vizsla Valley. Now, I’m no carrot muncher—foul greenery!—but justice in Pawsburgh was as important as my daily chicken sandwich with that delightful dollop of mayo.

“Guys,” I said with a grin like I’d just found an unattended picnic basket, “I say we track down this marauding mongrel. Fancy a bit of a wild west adventure?”

Marshmallows barked enthusiastically, his tail wagging like it was trying to start a one-dog rave, while Goldie, ever the cynic, mused, “We might just be setting ourselves up for quite the doggone debacle.”

Ignoring Goldie’s pithy skepticism, I fashioned a cowboy hat from a discarded paper plate, an emblem of our newfound quest. We ventured forth, leaving the sanctuary of Buttercup Park with its squirrels and their eternal game of tag. First stop: Bark Buffet for provisions. There’s nothing like a good stick-to-your-ribs meal to prepare for a day of daring exploits.

Our next clue led us to The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium, where Mr. Squeaky shed light on the situation. Okay, the stuffed squirrel didn’t actually talk—what am I, crazy?—but a chew toy’s stitches can reveal many a secret if you’re paying attention. Apparently, Bandit Beagle had been seen with a suspicious bulge beneath his bandana near Shiba Inlet.

“Probably stashing his loot,” I deduced, as cleverly as if I’d written the mystery myself, “Or he’s got a goiter. Either way, we’re hot on his trail.”

Crossing the lively landscape of Pawsburgh, we galloped through Onyx Otterhound Oasis, dodged the tumbleweeds at Canine Kabobs, and zoned out listening to Goldie’s dissertation on the moral implications of bone burying. Finally, the rugged terrain of Chihuahua Chasm loomed before us, where the trail went colder than a nose on a winter’s morning.

Just then, in the cinematic way things seem to unfold in Westerns, Bandit Beagle sauntered out from the shadows of a rocky overhang. And it occurred to me – one dog’s villain is another’s misunderstood antihero.

“Hey, I’m not looking for trouble,” I barked, semi-convincingly. “But you’re wanted for vegetablery. That a word? Anyway, what’s your side of the story?”

Turns out, Bandit Beagle had been rescuing Pawsburgh from the insidious advance of broccoli. A noble cause! My taste buds tingled in solidarity. Surely, a compromise could be reached.

After a tense but comical parley, Goldie – in a philosophical peak – proposed a community garden devoted to dog-friendly delights (minus the broccoli, of course). Bandit Beagle’s heart was won, my friends cheered, and I saved the day in between digressions on the importance of a satisfying lunch.

As dusk fell over Pawsburgh and my human’s slippers called me back home, I took one last look at the town, my town, where every dog had its day. And I, Nekoda, with Mr. Squeaky firmly in mouth, knew there’d be another adventure waiting when the morning called again.

The End.