Hey Mom,

Just a heads up, your ostensibly innocent “Bon Bon” just masterminded a doggone heist at The Fetching Feline—secured a bounty of treats and toys without ruffling a single fur (or human suspicion). Imagine Ocean’s Eleven with wagging tails! The Bernese in me yearns for the quiet life, but the thrill-seeker… well, he’s having a howl. Tell no one 😉

Wet-nosed hugs,
Bonnie

Listen to the story here

As the first light of dawn trickled through the slats of the window and humans busied themselves with the monotony of their daily hustle, a different kind of buzz began to course through the leaf-lined streets of Pawsburgh. A whisper of an adventure, a heist unlike any other, had found its way to my floppy, yet ever-perceptive ears.

‘This daylight lark of pretending to be ‘just a dog’ is about to get a jolly good shake-up,’ I mused to myself, picturing The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium in my mind’s eye, its shelves bulging with more tantalizing treats and toys than one could dream of. Today, it was not just any day; today, it was the day we, the Canine Consortium, would execute the most epic heist Pawsburgh had ever seen.

Charlie was the first to trot into Harrier Harbor, his ears astream and a mischievous glint sparkling like the North Star in his eyes. “Morning, Bonnie! Ready to chew through today’s caper?” he barked with a wag that could have powered the town, had it been connected to the grid.

“Ready as a fresh carrot on a dew-kissed morning,” I replied, my mountain-sized heart pounding with excitement.

Maya ambled in next, her Labrador smile as broad and generous as Fido’s Feast’s serving portions. “We’re not taking any unnecessary risks today, right?” she asked, voice ever so laced with concern. Even in the midst of our grand plans, her benevolence knew no bounds.

“And lose the chance to pull one’s paw from the cookie jar unscathed? Perish the thought,” I assured her, my own mouth watering at the analogy.

Finally, Oscar darted into our midst, no doubt straight from terrorizing some hapless postal worker. “Everything’s set at Bloodhound Bluffs. The humans won’t suspect a thing,” he reported with a terrier’s trademark gusto.

So off we trotted to The Fetching Feline, the jewel in the crown of Pawsburgh’s pet scene. Maya kept lookout at Harrier Harbor, Charlie’s paws worked their magic while he deftly disabled the security—a rather unsophisticated chew toy alarm system—and I, with my heart thudding against my ribcage like a drum in a rock band, approached the front door.

It was then that my nemesis made its presence known—a rogue raindrop, its cohorts following, determined to dampen spirits and paws alike. In any other situation, I would have retreated, waiting for those hated drops to cease, but today was no ordinary day. The Consortium needed me.

“Stiff upper lip, old chap,” I whispered to myself, shaking off the dread as I pressed on to the threshold.

Inside The Fetching Feline, the air was thick with the scent of adventure—and assorted treats and toys. “Carrots and Rope toys,” I announced to Oscar, who was already filling the duffle bags. We worked with swift, silent precision, me with my carrot fixation, Oscar aiming for a special squeaky ball.

But then, as fate would have it, the clerk, a snoozy Saint Bernard by the name of Bernard, stirred from his slumber, no doubt dreaming of mountains and brandy barrels. We were moments from being rumbled.

In the spirit of Richard Curtis’s prose, our exit wasn’t just a close shave, it was a heartfelt dance with destiny. Charlie’s tail wagged a rhythm of urgency as Maya’s bark ushered us out and into Blue Basenji Bay. We spilled into the streets just as the humans began to stir, none the wiser.

Back in my human’s embrace, I could hear their whispers of a thwarted pet heist at The Fetching Feline, the culprits as elusive as the secret lives we lived. And there I lay, Bonnie the Bernese, enveloped in the stand-in harbor of my human’s arms, my paws dry (thank heavens), and my heart full of today’s splendid romp. The heist of Pawsburgh would be a tale told in hushed tones, tickling the ear flaps of generations to come. After all, who doesn’t love a good caper among comrades?

The End.