Hey hooman,

Just wanted to let you know that Pawsburgh is safe again! Your furry night guardian, Biscuit a.k.a the Furry Fury, just outwitted Dober-Man’s cat-flap caper with some philosophical chit-chat and dreams of Husky’s Hotcakes. All tails are waggin’ in peace tonight. Keep the belly rubs ready, I’m coming home a hero. 🐾🌜

– Biscuit

Listen to the story here

In the cobblestone lanes of Pawsburgh, beneath a moonlit sky promising adventures untold, I, Biscuit, stood on all fours, ready to immerse myself in yet another escapade of heroic proportions. I fancied myself some kind of a nocturnal squire, the tan and black-veiled vigilante of the night.

“Quiet evening at Harrier Harbor,” I soliloquized, echoing the Nora Ephron within me, wisecracks and all. A tribute to my human who’d drown their sorrows in old rom-coms I’d observed with feigned disinterest—but in truth? I was all in for the human condition, wrapped in witty banter and love stories with enough warmth to melt the coldest kibble.

As I trotted toward Cocker Courtyard, the city’s heart, my paws tapped an alert rhythm on the stones, replaying out loud what my dear friends at Barker’s Bakery whispered with concern earlier. A villainous rogue, the Dober-Man, they called him, taunting Pawsburgh with grand schemes of installing cat-flaps in every nook—no offense to felines, but think of the chaos!

My lot in life, perhaps inconsequential on ordinary evenings when I indulged in Husky’s Hotcakes or shared a grilled chicken cutlet at Rottweiler’s Ribs, was unmistakably clear. Save Pawsburgh from impending doom—the scoundrel must be stopped.

Jade Jack Russell Junction lay in eerie stillness as I neared, tails of my amigos swishing through my mind like the ears of my favorite squeaky rubber chicken toy. “Biscuit is here,” I’d bellow. Ah, the stuff of Pawsburg legend…

After all, wasn’t it I who detested the odd carrot stick? Villainy was merely another unsavory flavor to reject, and The Dober-Man? A metaphorical carrot in the grand smorgasbord of life.

Squaring up before The Howling Husky Hardware Store, which was more fortress than retail space tonight, I felt a stirring—was it the thrill of the chase or the inevitable peanut butter delicacy waiting for its victorious hero?

However, in this moon-kissed moment of solace, I considered my foes not simply antagonists but misunderstood souls whom life had chewed up like a well-loved toy. My tail gave an involuntary wag, my heart an odd pang. It was all very Ephron-esque, really.

“Treachery has a new scent, and it smells like wet dog,” I quipped to myself, turning into an alley. It was there that I confronted The Dober-Man, gizmos and gadgets dangling from his leather collar, his heart set on upheaval and feline portals.

With confidence only a French Bulldog in Pawsburgh could muster, I gave it to him straight—you don’t need the drama of villainy; sometimes, the simple joys of life, like chasing that elusive butterfly, bring the same satisfaction.

“You think you can deter me with philosophical babble?” he growled, slightly bewildered by my acumen.

“There’s more to life than cat-flaps,” I countered, “like friendship, belly rubs, and did I mention Husky’s Hotcakes?”

And so, with the power of words, and maybe a distraction involving a squeaky toy strategically lobbed, the story unfolded as you might imagine. The Dober-Man, disarmed by kindness and curiosity about toasty hotcakes, agreed to cease his plans. Pawsburgh was saved, and I—well, I was just Biscuit, the master storyteller and unexpected hero, living to woof another tale.

As the first light of dawn restored Pawsburgh’s tranquility, I sneaked back to my human’s abode. Another secret mission accomplished, another story to wag at my human’s feet. Because every dog has its day, and this was one for the Kibble Records.

The End.