Yo, just a heads up: Lola the Fluff busted out of the big house tonight. Played ’em with charm and a squirrel on a fan. Now laying low at Spaniel Springs with the crew. Story’s far from over, but let’s say justice is on the menu. Stay tuned. ✨🐾 – Lola the Legend

Every dog in Pawsburgh knew Lola—the chow chow with the superhero mane and eyes that held centuries of silent stories. That’s me. I mean, you know me, right? They talk about my tongue like it’s some kind of legend. I like to keep them guessing.

So here I am, in Pawsburgh’s least charming location—the animal shelter. And yes, wrongfully accused. Just because one night, I indulged in a little culinary exploration at Paw Pad Thai and maybe, just maybe, left without settling the chicken satay tab. Was it my fault the moonlight framed me like a silent movie villain?

The plot, as they say in those old black-and-white films, thickened. A break was on the menu—one with more zest than my all-time low-lemon incident.

Once the last sunbeam surrendered to the moon, the plan unfolded. Skip, the terrier with more energy than all of Setter Shore, had dug a tunnel worthy of any escape movie featuring industrious schemers with snouts. But tunnels were too mainstream for me, plus I hadn’t groomed my fur for such activities.

No, we had something better. Whiskers, the old cat with a Ph.D. in stealth, had snagged a set of keys from a dozing volunteer. His stealth skills would make ninjas retire in envy. We were golden, except for one detail: I was too fluffy for the cat flap Whiskers intended as our Great Escape route.

“Distraction,” I said, eyeing Skip. He nodded, already bouncing like he had pogo sticks for paws. I was the mastermind—fluffy, but crafty. “Get ready to sizzle,” I told them, sharpening my wit.

First up, I howled a woeful ballad, recollecting every drama class I’d ever slept through. Meanwhile, Skip launched into a performance of complete madness; if dog Olympics existed, he’d be a gold medalist in “Attention-Grabbing”. And oh, how the humans flocked, bless their simple hearts.

Now, the pièce de résistance. Remember my plush squirrel collection? I’d smuggled one in, had it waiting in the wings all along. You should’ve seen their faces when that squirrel swung from the ceiling fan, heroic as any caped crusader, whisking their gazes upwards as I executed the secret Chow-Chow shimmy-slide through the slightly-ajar door.

Once out, the night air of Pawsburgh filled my lungs. It tasted like freedom and smelled faintly of the Chef’s Special at Spaniel Spaghetti. Ah, civilization! Quick on my paws, I blended into the nightlife like I owned the joint, even stopping for a throwback glance that would’ve made movie stars jealous.

Whiskers skulked out, smooth as the jazz at Pomeranian Park on a Saturday night. Skip bolted with a yip that said, “Catch me if you can!” which, let’s be honest, no one could.

We headed to Spaniel Springs, where water splashing against fur sounded like applause for our victory against The System. What’s a little break without the cinematic splashdown?

“Don’t make this a habit, Ms. Mane,” Whiskers purred, “We can’t pull this off every Tuesday.”

I grinned, a rogue with style. “Deal,” I said, “but only because the duck-watching at the riverside beats the shelter’s view.”

You might think this is where we lay low, let the heat cool. But no, Lola’s tale didn’t end with paws up and a nap. There needed to be justice, an untangling of this canine conundrum. And rumor has it, there’s a new detective in Spaniel Springs who just might be the tail-wagger for the job.

But that, my furry friends, is a story for another night.

The End.