Hey Mom,

Whew, what a night! Became an accidental tennis ball heist mastermind in Pawsburgh with Tigger. Eluded the dog fuzz, paws and tails intact. Hideout now? Comfy bed with my stolen squeaky treasure buried for later fun. Living the dog dream – or perhaps starting a new tail. 😉🎾

xoxo
Tink

Listen to the story here

You wouldn’t believe the night I had. Even if I rolled over and did that cute thing with my paws, you’d surely think I’d sniffed too many lampposts.

I was nestled in Weimaraner Woods, right on the outskirts of the mysterious and exclusive Pawsburgh, where the moon hung in the sky like a chew toy just out of reach. Tigger was by my side, his whispers about some clandestine gathering prickling my ears. “Tinkerbell,” he’d said with a glint in his beady little eyes, “we’ve got ourselves an opportunity.”

As a dog of considerable nerve, I let curiosity lead me by the collar. We slinked through the shadows to Garnet Greyhound Grove, surprisingly silent, save for the rhythmic tic-toc of a nearby sprinkler system. It was a peculiar scene. A row of mutts from Terriers to Mastiffs lined up outside The Pampered Pooch Salon, their coats too slick for mere coincidence.

Turns out, behind those glam grooming sessions, the Salon was masking a sordid black-market operation. Illegal? Absolutely. Thrilling? You bet your favorite chew toy it was – they were smuggling tennis balls. Not just any balls, mind you, these were the top-of-the-line SqueakMaster 3000s, banned from all of Pawsburgh for causing what the officials called “excessive joy.”

I was taken aback, my tail betraying a flicker of trepidation. But Tigger, he was already enmeshed in the plot, his wiry tail wagging like a conductor’s baton. That’s how I found myself amidst a canine cartel, where loyalty was bought in belly rubs and scratches behind the ear.

Our ringleader, a charismatic Chihuahua with a Napoleon complex, laid out the hatched plan with a dramatic flair that I couldn’t help but admire. “Tonight, we liberate the SqueakMaster 3000s from their prison at The Woofy Bakery’s high-security stash.” His words were infused with the passion of a dog who really, really liked his toys.

It was bold. It was absurd. And saucer-eyed, I was all in.

The operation was a symphony of sniffs and stealth. We prowled under the meticulous cover of bushes and fences, whispering in a language of woofs and barks so covert even the cats wouldn’t understand. Upon reaching our treasure trove, the Chihuahua and I worked the lock with the finesse of feline cat burglars – though I’m loathe to admit the comparison.

We flung the door open and there it was – an oasis of orbs, a symphony of squeaks. My tongue lolled out in sheer amazement. A scamper of paws unfurled as the pack dived in; bliss incarnate illuminated by moonbeams and the soft glow of streetlamps.

But as with all great heists, we heard the dreaded jingle of collars – the Dog Police. Trust me, these Officer Pooches were no pups to play with. We scattered like kibble when the bag tips over, each cursing their own wagging tails.

Tigger and I, though, we’ve always had luck on our side. Or maybe it was my knack for blending into the night, with my dual-toned coat of cunning tan and white. We hightailed it back to the human world, our hearts pounding like a rabbit’s foot thumping the ground in a high-stakes game of hide-and-seek.

Now, I sit before you, a dog of simple pleasures, but with the aftertaste of adventure still fresh in my mouth. The loot? Well, that’s buried beneath the Azaleas for a rainy day … because even a dog with a penchant for hamburgers and disdain for celery can appreciate a good squeak. And as Tigger snores softly beside me, I dream of Pawsburgh, my tail twitching in sleep – for I am Tinkerbell, protector, adventurer, and unwitting tennis ball thief.

The End.