Yo Mom,

Turns out I’m basically the James Bond of Pawsburgh. Played detective with my sidekick Spaniel St. James, sniffed out a rat pretending to be a dog who was selling secrets to cats. Stay tuned for my next adventure. More twists here than a leash in a tornado! 🐾🕵️‍♂️🐱

– Jaws (aka Stinky Button)

In the waning hours of a rather typical, balmy evening, the good mutts of Pawsburgh hustled to attend to the human-fooling facade of slumber. Satisfied with the stillness of their world, they ventured into alleys, through flaps, and out of mysteriously ajar doors crafted for such escapades. Myself, Jaws, a bulldog of considerable charisma and—dare I say—political wit, joined the fray of the luminary canines bound for the clandestine council held beneath Pyrenean Peak.

Oh, hark! Pawsburgh isn’t your garden-variety, romp-and-play dog town—no, it’s a bastion of dog democracy, a place where the tail neither wags the dog nor the other way ’round. Tonight, under the celestial cloak, there was a whiff of conspiracy flavouring the air—a scent even keener than the sweet allure of a fresh pineapple which, I will confess, is my favored vice.

I sauntered into Canine Cafe, where the amber glow and the ting-ting of the bell upon entry welcomed my black and white form. Treats? Nay, not tonight. The soft murmur of the cafe patrons hinted at the meat of the matter. It was there that Spaniel St. James, my confidant of many a caper, relayed the whispers of unease.

“Jaws, old chap,” said he, with a twitch of his velvety ears, “there’s talk of a mole in Pawsburgh, purloining secrets straight from the ‘paw-per’s’ lips to the ears of the Feline Federation at The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium.”

I flashed a bemused grin, stifling a snort. “Politics makes villains of us all, but a mole, you say? Let’s chew this over at Wagging Whisk, the very walls have ears here.”

Our tails and tongues moved in unison across the cobblestones to the quietude of the wagging establishment. We nested amongst the shadows, our profiles obscured by tankards of frothy milk.

“The mole,” spoke I, articulating each syllable with a politician’s precision, “jeopardizes our very sovereignty. We shan’t let our pursuits of apple slices and belly rubs be marred by espionage.”

Spaniel St. James growled his accord. “A sting, we must orchestrate. Lead the cur to the promised cheese but give him not but a bone.”

A plan—a masterstroke of cunning worthy of a John le Carré thriller—birthed between sips and sighs. Baited with false information about a revolutionary treat—more divine than carrots—a stash at Fetch! Toys and Treats, we would ensnare the betrayer. Whiffs of this plot would nosedive straight into the Emerald Eskimo Estuary, no doubt.

The scheme spun, our paws pattered—the quietness of Pawsburgh pierced only by the unassuming life that thrummed beneath Pyrenean Peak and the lapping whispers of Blue Basenji Bay. The trap set amongst the myriad squeaky toys and chew ropes, every wagging tail and perked ear was part of the espionage game.

At the witching hour, the contours of an unfamiliar mutt slunk into view. We watched, veiled by trinkets, as the traitor sniffed around the false treasure. The signal—my booming bark, whether courageous or mad—unleashed a cavalcade of canines.

“Stop, fiend!”

And there we had him—a mongrel of matted fur, a sight that could stir pity if not for the duplicity that underlined his countenance. Caught!

The ensuing tribunal, convened at daybreak—it’s inefficient, battling misdeeds by moonlight—saw justice meted out in doggish decorum. Exile to the Cat Isles, an archipelago void of the scent of pineapple—my idea, of course, though I presented it as a mere whim.

I look back not in glee nor regret, but with a vigilant eye on Pawsburgh’s horizon. For in this realm of political thespians, I remain Jaws, a simple Old English Bulldog with an affinity for juicy whispers as much as for sweet fruit. Let this tale be a cautionary sniff against treachery… and a nod to the unexpected intricacies of doghood.

The End.