Hey Mom and Dad, it’s Holly. Managed to outwit that fur-coated thief Rocky by swapping collars at Shiba’s Docktail Party! I’ve turned detective on four paws, tracking down my prized bouncy ball and serving justice. Think of me as Pawsburgh’s Sherlock Bones. Bark later! 🐾 – Holly

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Listen: I’m Holly, and I might just have the most slobbering, tail-thumping bone to pick in all of Pawsburgh. Yes, even more than when that schnauzer from Shiba Inlet lifted his leg on my favorite lamppost. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

It started on an unsuspecting Tuesday. I had meandered down to Ruby Rottweiler Ridge, digging for the lost bones of yesteryear, contemplating the important things in life – like whether I should give Paw-tisserie’s new beef-flavored éclairs a try or stick to the classics over at Pom’s Pies. The sun was playing hide and seek behind fluffy clouds, and life was as perfect as a full food bowl during dinner time.

Anyway, in the middle of my existential pastry deliberations, the unimaginable happened. My favorite bouncy ball, the one that was the perfect shade of rabbit-fur grey with just the right amount of chomp marks, vanished. Poof! Like a doggie treat in front of a hungry pup. Disaster, upheaval, the end of times—pick your analogy; they all fit the bill.

Now, to understand the gravity of the situation, you’ve got to know, that wasn’t any regular ball. It was the crown jewel of my toy chest, my sunken treasure in the sea of mundane playthings. It was my…dare I say it, precious.

At first, I thought I’d simply misplaced it in the endless expanse of the Pawsome Pet Pharmacy, because the mind does that sometimes—like when I forget I’ve already had dinner and pester for seconds. But as it turned out, this was no accident; it was doggone premeditated theft. And the scoundrel? No other than the fox-trotting glamour hound from Terrier Town with more fur pomade than sense, Rocky.

I knew I had to enact a chew-the-couch-pillow kind of revenge. Not the sort that hurts, mind you. I am, after all, a Pit Bull with a heart of kibble. I wanted justice, Pawsburgh-style. In a town where every snout knows your tail-wags, reputation is everything.

Plotting my vengeance, I considered all the typical dog antics—the shoe heist, the newspaper shred, the garden hole ambush. But I needed to be smarter. I had to think like a hooman outwitting their own kind, which is to say, cut right to where it hurt most: pride.

My chance came at the Docktail Party at Shiba Inlet, the social event of the week where tails are high and barks are loud. Playing it cool, I strolled in, giving nods and sniffs to the regulars. Then I saw him, Rocky, regaling a circle of mutts with embellished tales of fetch heroics.

Without a bark, I approached the fluffy deceiver. With the poise of a polished showdog and the stealth of a cat—excuse my French—I did the unthinkable: I swapped our collars. His, a pretentious, diamond-studded one; mine, humble yet authentic.

“Why Holly, whatever are you doing?” His tone was an octave too high.

Etched into the back of my collar, hidden from the world, was a tracker—old tech from my human’s paranoid phase. Its blinking light was now tucked safely under Rocky’s fur.

That’s when I addressed the pack. “Friends,” I said, “I have a tale. One of lost treasures and found honor.”

The ball was history, but as every dog knows, it’s not about the toys we lose but the friends we make along the way. And today, my friends would help solve this mystery, one bark ping at a time.

Rocky’s face drained of color, under all that muck of styling cream and hairspray.

Revenge, my friends, is best served with a side of justice. And a slice of humble pie. Pom’s, if you can get it.

The End.