Hey there!

Just a quick update from the whirlwind that is my life: Last night, yours truly got framed for a poultry heist at the swankiest doggy do. Imagine that! Now I’m plotting my great escape from the pound. Move over, Houdini! Also, the Golden Goose? Totally found. Phew! Tell everyone I’ll be home for dinner, preferably something with chicken. 😉

Stay pawsome!

Chata 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

It was a typical twilight in Pawsburg when the incident occurred – an incident that would see my reputation smeared like an overzealous pup’s drool across a newly cleaned windowpane. I, Chata, the spry White Chihuahua mix with a penchant for sunspots and chicken stew, found myself in a quandary so profound, it could only occur in the dog-eat-dog labyrinth of Vizsla Valley.

Picture, if you will, the illustrious Cocker Courtyard subsumed by chaos. A grand soiree was underway beneath the crescent moon, with the crème de la crème of canine society in attendance. The theme, an homage to poultry (an inoffensive creature universally acknowledged in Pawsburg for its contribution to our bowls). It was going splendidly, until the Golden Goose, the pièce de résistance of Hound’s Hotdogs, lay disgraced – absolutely bereft of its succulent stuffing.

“Foul play!” yowled Apollo, the basset hound with a nose for drama.

“Fowl play, actually,” corrected Ziggy, never missing a beat, nor puddle.

I, dear reader, was framed for the unsavory act. Accused – me, Chata – of being so enamored by poultry that I’d commit such hen-ious theft. But, come now, a plush taco is one thing; grand larceny of a priceless goose is quite beyond my humble desires. Yet there I was, carted off to the Pawsburgh Pound, my name synonymous with grand theft avian.

The pound, designed like a fortress, was rather impressive. If one must be wrongfully incarcerated, at least they’d accounted for aesthetics. But, as you might surmise, there are no warm sunspots in the clink. No, only the cold reality of bars and a bed that doesn’t know its occupants.

Mulling over my plight, I began to formulate a plan. My agility could be advantageous; my unassuming size a blessing. The Great Escape of Chata seemed imminent. After all, what’s a Pawsburg without a tale of escapade?

Yet as I orchestrated my strategy, summoning the stealth of Cleo the Siamese (we did have our tacit understandings), my allies, faithful and true, were working their paws to the bone outside.

“I say it’s preposterous!” howled Apollo at Best in Show Photography, his discontent captured in sepia.

“Preposterous!” agreed the photographer, who, truth be told, agreed with everyone.

Ziggy, meanwhile, patrolled Affenpinscher Avenue, splashing through evidence, managing to confuse both scent and sense.

And so, after an unsettled slumber, I awoke to what can only be described as a jailbreak orchestration. My cohorts had gathered in the twilight – oh, the loyalty of Pawsburg’s pups!

“Ready, Chata?” Apollo’s voice was the trumpet of my salvation.

I gave no verbal affirmation; Chihuahuas are, by nature, beings of action.

As I maneuvered through the shadows, a James Bond in a land of Lassies, I reached the rendezvous point. The considerable throng that had gathered was hardly conducive to stealth, but Pawsburgers know not the meaning of the word ‘subtle’.

And just as I cleared the last hurdle, there was a triumphant bark. The Golden Goose had been located, swallowed whole by a serendipitous pothole. Unharmed, albeit indignant.

Of all the strange turns in Pawsburg, I mused as I snuggled once more into Mrs. Lavender’s embrace, this was perhaps the most fortuitous.

There it is, my dear reader, the story of my curious website affair, an odyssey of misguided justice and uncanny companions. Now, where’s that plush taco of mine?

The End.