Hey, just saved Pawsburg from a feline coup with nary a scratch on me! 😼 Outfoxed ’em using wit, guile, and one stuffed dragon. I’ll be in the annals of neighborhood heroics – expect epic re-tellings at dinner. 🐾 Reggie the Rascal 🐶✨

Listen to the story here

The sun hadn’t yet peered over the maple grove’s silhouette on the horizon, but I, Reggie, with the plume of my tail unfurled like the banner of nobility, was already wide awake. Mornings in Pawsburg carry a kind of whispered magic, and I — a dapper Pomeranian with a gentleman’s handkerchief patch — had stories worth wagging about.

Yesterday had been particularly bustling at the Quartz Qimmiq Quarter, where I offer my services at the bustling veterinary hospital. You’d think it’s all belly rubs and tail wags, but the dramas in these halls could rival any daytime soap. I’d just finished recounting my tales to Old Lady Hattie, who, bless her, always pretends it’s the first time she’s heard them.

So, there I was, strolling through Hound Heights after my customary sunrise watch, when I spotted Murphy, the wise old Golden, lounging on his porch.

“Reggie,” he barked with a knowing glint in his eye, “there’s a whiff of mystery in the air today.”

And he wasn’t barking up the wrong tree. Pawsburg was abuzz with an excitement I couldn’t quite put my paw on, and trust me, I know excitement — I once sent a squirrel into a tizzy with my mere presence.

I trotted, ears perked, to Labrador Lunch for a morning briefing. Pip, the ever-rascally Terrier, bounded up.

“We’ve got an emergency at The Pawfect Training Center,” he yipped. “Whiskers, our Siamese consultant, has uncovered a mischievous band of cats planning to unseat the alpha of Mastiff’s Meals!”

Oh, the audacity! In a town where a toy dragon is my most trustworthy companion, the thought of such unruliness had me more inflamed than my paunch after a secret salmon supper. Whiskers and I have a kinship, you see — a shared finesse for the finer things, a shared impatience for the mundane.

We convened at The Furry Friends Art Gallery, where paintings twitch with the inner lives of Pawsburg residents, and hashed out our plan.

“Operation Shepherds Save,” Whiskers had declared, with a dramatic swish of her tail, “is afoot!”

The plot was elaborate. Using The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium as our base, we crafted disguises and undercover personalities. Soon, I was Reginald LaPom, sophisticated globe-trotter and gourmand, a cover I rather fancied.

The day brought with it a flurry of whispered conversations over Shepherd’s Shawarma and decoy deliveries to distract our feline adversaries. I won’t lie; it carried a whiff of danger, but isn’t that what gives a story its zest?

Finally, as the afternoon waned, the operation crescendoed. We surrounded the would-be saboteurs at Spaniel Springs — them with their claws sheathed in velvet paws and us, a tapestry of breeds united.

Just as the tension reached its peak, out came the stuffed dragon, the emblem of my victories, gripped in my mouth. It was the perfectly dramatic gesture, and you know what? It worked.

The cats, realizing they were outsmarted, skulked away with a new respect for the denizens of Pawsburg, while we reveled in our triumph, savoring the afterglow at Mastiff’s Meals’ victory feast.

The evening saw the tales of our day woven into the rich tapestry of Pawsburg lore, certain to bring gasps and guffaws for generations to come.

As Reggie, the dramatic yet steadfast hero, I returned to my nook by the garden with a story for Hattie that would surely make her eyes twinkle with pride.

Ah, Pawsburg, where every dog has its day, and every day a tail to tell.

The End.