Message Sent 💬:

“Hey paw-pal, I, Meatball, just saved Pawsburgh from two-legged treat thieves in an operation worthy of a bulldog spy! My cover? Just a regular pup, but really, the James Bond of doggo world. 😉 Kept our stash of Bullyrings safe – all in a night’s work. Shhh… let’s keep this our little secret. Tails up! 🐾 – Agent M”

Listen to the story here

Ah, there I was, Meatball, the culinary connoisseur bulldog of Pawsburgh, strutting down to Chestnut Cocker Courtyard with the swagger that only a British breed can muster when they know they’re about to indulge in an escapade. Now, I say ‘I was strutting’, but let’s be honest, we bulldogs more ‘amble with purpose’. As far as anyone’s concerned, I was on the trot for a bit of fun—a repercussion of my humans off on one of their jaunts. They think I nap, drool and wait for their return. Ha!

So, sauntering into Pinscher Plaza, I sniffed out the scent of mock-turkey decadence wafting from Pooch’s Pizzeria. The olfactory cocktail danced a tantalizing tango up my nostrils to lead my rumbling belly in the direction of golden crusts and cheesy dreams. I licked my chops—those sensitive souls at Pooch’s knew their way around a meaty feast.

It was when my padded paws clapped on the cobblestone steps to the Golden Grub that I heard the murmurs. Barks about two suspicious figures, two-legged ones, skulking about in our canine paradise. It was unusual—humans didn’t waltz into Pawsburgh, they didn’t even foxtrot.

Now, I’m not just any dog; I don’t jump at shadows or chase my tail unless there’s something substantial at stake—like a sweet potato pie, perhaps. But the intruders weren’t after pies. They were after our bones, our toys, our Bullyrings! By Jove, not the Bullyrings! The Culinary Code of Canine Conduct clearly states that all treats and treasures are sacrosanct. This had to be sniffed out.

So I made my way to the kennel, the wind whispering schemes through my fur. If these conniving cads thought they could bamboozle us pooches, they had another thing coming. The kennel, full of barks and snores, rested under the divine guardianship of the dog stars.

But stars twinkle out of reach, and it turned out tonight, guarding was up to yours truly, Meatball—the bulldog with enough gumption to chew a wasp.

Creeping like the cat we all love to disdain, I spied the two intruders, their shadows long and crooked in the moonlight. They carried sacks—sacks, I tell you—which simply screamed ‘nefarious’.

Lunging into action, I unleashed the full force of my Meatball might. A diversion was in order, kindly lent by a heaping of Frisbees from Fetch! Toys and Treats—they never saw it coming. Frisbees flew like dinner plates at a Greek wedding, and the intruders were flummoxed, stumbling about in a dance of dumbstruck dunces.

Then, with precision unbecoming of my generous girth, I trailed them into Best in Show Photography. One trip of the wire I had chewed loose earlier, and like a click of the shutter, they were caught in a net of their own puzzled looks.

When the humans returned, they found Pawsburgh peaceful, and the pilferers properly penned. Meatball, they said, was the hero of the hour—I just wagged my tail, feigning ignorance. But deep within, I chuckled at my cunning caper.

A bulldog must have her secrets after all, even if they’re laced with a smidgen of mischief. But those are tales for another treat-fueled reverie, a parchment unrolled on a full belly, and the whispers of a good, sturdy Bullyring waiting to be conquered. Goodnight, Pawsburgh, and may your dreams be as valiant and vivacious as your most daring defenders—like me, Meatball, the keeper of the kennel.

The End.