Hey Jamie! 🐾

Just your four-legged Sherlock, Brinley, checking in. Saved Woofington’s from a dastardly heist last night. Who knew watermelon could double as a slippery trap? Chandeliers aren’t just for classy ambiance; they’re primo for thwarting baddies. Back to cute snuggles now. Who’s a good girl? 🕵️‍♀️🐕💖

– Bree

Listen to the story here

In the twilight hours of Pawsburgh, as the veil of night had not yet lifted its somber curtain, I found myself stealthily escaping my abode with the elegance of a whispered breeze. Hi, I’m Brinley, the Italian Greyhound with the svelte neck and dainty paws, remember? My human, Jamie, slumbered peacefully, unaware of the caper I was about to embark upon.

It was Christmas Eve, and while my fellow canines dreamed of meaty treats and squeaky toys nestled under twinkling trees, I trotted toward the cobbled lanes of Pawsburgh. But you see, this Yuletide morn would not entail the usual frolics in the parks of Topaz Terrier Town. No, today I was to defend the esteemed Woofington’s Kennel from a fate most grim.

By the time the town’s luminescent glow of fairy lights kissed the horizon, I had ensconced myself within the cozy confines of Woofington’s. Its festive decorations winked at me jovially, unaware of the ensuing peril.

It was then those nefarious interlopers appeared. A duo as mismatched as kibble and caviar, they prowled through Amber Akita Alley with malintent. Scuttlebutt whispered they sought the secret recipe of Wagging Whisk’s ambrosial Beef Wellington, a treasure held within the kennel’s vaults.

“Ah, Marley should see me now,” I chuckled to myself, envisioning his golden mane in an upheaval as he learned of my mano-a-dog-o with the intruders. “He’d bark his head off with pride.”

Now, I’m perceptive, they say, and gentle in my ways. But let not these traits belie a temerity stitched into my very seams. I took to guile and cunning – a strategy befitting my ally Tobias, that rascal of a cat.

A dance commenced – nay, a ballet of wits. A squeaky plush squirrel, my beloved companion in times of cheer, became a decoy. I paraded it with the flamboyance of Best in Show Photography’s most exalted model, tossing it into the trap of cans I’d cunningly arrayed – no thunderous noises could deter me this day.

“Craaaash!” The sound scattered their senses, disrupting their mischievous quest. One burglar slipped upon a scattered array of watermelon chunks – my food of adoration, but today, a weapon of choice. “Gaaah, what fiendish cur has laid this ambush?” he lamented as the sweet nectar misled his feet.

Their befuddlement was a sonnet to my ears, as harmonious as little Kiwi’s serenades. With each blunder they made, I pitter-pattered away, just out of reach, a shadow, a whisper, a doubt in their minds.

And as the first burgeon of daylight teased its arrival, I delivered my coup de grâce. I performed my most exquisite pas de chat, leaping to the grand chandelier with the grace of a prima ballerina. Downward it came, descending like the heavy silence after the last note of Kiwi’s song.

“Blasted beast!” the intruders cursed, their holiday heist hewn in twain by a canine half their size.

As the bobbies of Pawsburgh carted them away, I felt the warm embrace of the sun’s first kiss upon the town. The kennel was safe, its treasures unperturbed, and the honor of dogdom upheld by the smallest of guards.

Jamie found me later, nestled in my bed, with visions of my night’s adventure dancing like sugar-plum fairies in my head. “Brinley, what stories your bright eyes must hold,” they’d whisper, never truly grasping the depth of my midnight escapades.

Oh, Pawsburgh, your secrets are safe with me.

The End.