Hey Mom,

Just saved Pawsburgh from a bad case of the Pomeranian counterfeit bone scandal at Barker’s Bakery. Became the unofficial sheriff of chew toys and meat pies. Think of me as the top dog detective! Miss your belly rubs.

P.S. Left the carrots untouched – I’ll trade ’em for your chicken any day.

Woofing you lots,
Grimmy 🐾✨

I never did like carrots. They were the one thing that made my nose scrunch up in such a way that I’d imagine the felines might snicker—if they ever set foot in Pawsburgh, that is. It was the principle of the matter, really. Who wants something crunchy and devoid of taste when there’s a sizzling chicken nugget on the horizon? But it wasn’t nourishment I was after on that peculiar day—the day I found myself padding through the streets of Pawsburgh with more purpose than a mailman followed by barks.

You know me, Grim. An average Labrabull, with a loyalty that’s stitched right through the fabric of this place. There’s an air about Pawsburgh that smells like freedom and tastes like adventure. It makes me feel like I’m more than just Grim; I’m a part of something—a part of the fabric of this place—like the black and white threads interwoven on the back of my neck. Today, I had business at Barker’s Bakery. The kind that reeks of blackmail and wagging tails.

The whispers had been clear: someone intended to disrupt the balance. A clandestine deal, counterfeit bones hidden beneath the fluffy folds of rogue Pomeranians. They’d gone too far, and someone had to snuff it out before chaos unraveled.

As I approached Barker’s Bakery, the aroma of fresh buns and pies tickled my snout. My business here though, was with the baker himself, a Chihuahua with ears too big for his head and ambition too grand for his tiny paws. I pushed through the swinging doors, receiving a nod from those in the know.

“Grim,” acknowledged the baker, masking concern behind his usual posturing. I leaped up onto the countertop with a thud that made the patrons look up from their meat-pastries.

“Benny,” I said, keeping my tone level but firm. “There’s a rumor—a nasty, vegetable kind of rumor, that you might be cooking up more than just pies.”

He twitched, ears flapping like flags in a thunderstorm. “What? Grim—no!”

I leaned in, watching the baker’s eyes dart faster than a Chihuahua at a greyhound track. “Benny, we’ve been through this before. Don’t make me unleash the big dogs on you.”

As I left Barker’s Bakery with the understanding that order would be respected, I couldn’t help but think about loyalty, about the streets I’d wander back to my humans’ home. Pawsburgh was more than just a refuge; it was a kingdom, and in a way, I’d become its overseer. Not through fear—they all knew I was a good boy—but through respect.

The day wound down at Shiba Inlet, where the waves lapped against the shore and filled me with a feeling as comforting as a well-loved stuffed dinosaur. I chased my Reebok tennis ball down the beach, which Geezer, an old Rottweiler who’d seen more summers than I’d eaten hot dogs, lobbed with a practiced paw.

“You keep those youngsters in line, Grim?” he’d ask between tosses.

“Goes without saying,” I’d pant, sprinting back with the ball, the saltwater in my fur mixed with the satisfaction of a day well spent.

But as the sun set, painting the sky with hues of gold and blush, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something new was brewing. I cast a glance toward Hound’s Hotdogs, thinking of the untouched plate of carrots waiting back at my humans’ place. ‘Gotta keep them guessing,’ I mused to myself, and with a bark to the horizon, I turned toward home.

The whispers of Pawsburgh’s streets curled around my ears like the intricate spots on my neck, as I patrolled the town I guarded. I was Grim, and this—this was my domain.

The End.

Share This Story: