Hey human!

Imagine this: I traded the oven’s warm snuggles for an adventure in Pawsburg’s heart. Got mistaken for the “Citrus Bandit”, ended up in doggy jail! Cue the Great Escape: Benny dug, Sasha flirted, I leapt like I’d seen a steak in the sky. We’re free, tails unzested and plenty of chicken dreams to come. Get the treats ready, I’m coming home with quite the tail-wagging story!

Stay pawsome,
Kova 🐾🦴

Listen to the story here

In the quiet hum that precedes dawn, when the world is bathed in an inky blue—the kind that seems to promise secrets and old stories—I wrest myself from beneath the bakery’s warmth. My human, cheeks round like risen dough, never notices. He slumbers, dreaming, I assume, of eclairs and buttery croissants. I adore him, but Pawsburg awaits, and with it, an adventure unpenned.

As the daybreak’s first fingers stretch across the sky, I trot past Papillon Promenade, headed, in earnest, to the serene whisper-snitching hilltop. This is where I generally begin my day, rooted in solitude, ruminating about snacks, perhaps a nice chicken bone. But, ah, that’s when the bitter sting of misfortune chose to nip at my heels.

Unbeknownst to me, the drones that mar my escapisms had been completing reconnaissance for the Dogcatcher’s Guild. They pegged me for the notorious “Citrus Bandit” – a villain known for replacing water bowls with lemonade citywide, the kind of thing only a nut would do. Everyone knows I find citrus as agreeable as rain on a long-awaited walk.

By the time Benny and Sasha came bounding over Malamute Mountain to catch up, I was trudging into “The Pound” – that not-so-charming nickname for the pet shelter that stands like a fortress at the edge of Newfoundland Nook. Behind bars, I peered out, my eyes a beacon of betrayal. Friends were nice, but what I needed was a lawyer.

The Pound was stark, a far cry from the lushness of Pawsburg and an even farther one from Retriever’s Restaurant where my gastronomic fantasies are realized. Here, the aroma of chicken was replaced with the less appealing scent of antibacterial cleaner and, what I suspected, was fear.

Sasha’s fur bristled as she heard the news. “This is an outrage!” she barked. Benny, practical as ever, sniffed around, his Sherlock senses tingling. “There’s gotta be a way out of this canine Alcatraz,” he muttered.

It came down to the execution of a flawless escape, caper-style. A Pet Break, if you will. The plan? Simple. In lieu of my absent lawyer, Sasha would use her charm on the guards, Benny would scout an unlikely exit route, and I, Kova, would muster all my pit bull tenacity to perform the grandest leap ever attempted within these woeful walls.

And would you believe? Our frolic through Pawsburg worked a little magic. Benny unearthed a forgotten tunnel beneath the Pawfect Training Center—(who knew?)—that led straight into the heart of the shelter. Meanwhile, Sasha fluffed her fur, batted her eyes at a hapless guard, and, well, one could say he was enchanted enough not to notice a trio of dog shadows slipping into the night.

Were there close calls? Certainly. The whisper of chain link grasping at the tips of our tails; the incredulous howls of disbelief at Kova, the least citrusy of rogues, bounding free; the quick calculation of the odds when faced with a yard of moonlit freedom or a somber return to captivity.

But oh, the splendor as we emerged, panting triumphantly into Pawsburg’s heart. It was like swapping a bowl of tart lemons for chicken à la king. The tale of our escapade will be told through alley whispers and will rustle in the papers lining comfy beds – a tale rich with truth, framed by loyalty, and dashed with the whim of adventure.

Here’s a toast with a bone on one side of Pawsburg while sitting pretty atop my hill—free once more, an indomitable spirit called Kova.

The End.