Hey Mom! 🐾

Just letting you know your son, Buddy the Amiable, is now Buddy the Escape Artist! Wrongly accused of a kebab heist, led a jailbreak from The Kennel, rallied a canine crew, and turned a riot into a great escape. Now I’m sunbathing free & clear of all doggone charges. Time to reclaim my sunspot throne!

Catch you at dinner? 😎🌭

– Butters

It isn’t every day you find yourself plotting an escape from the Spencerville Pup Correctional Facility, aka “The Kennel.” But let me tell you, this was no ordinary Tuesday. Hi, I’m Buddy, and this is my tail – I mean, tale.

It started with a misunderstanding. One minute I’m enjoying a blissful sunbath outside Bark ‘n’ Roll, and the next thing I know, I’m being led away in disgrace for allegedly stealing a rack of K9 Kebabs. I would argue, dear reader, that it’s a crime to *not* savor such savory delights, but pilfering? Not my style.

So there I was, in the slammer, my charm ineffective against the cold bars of the cage—no sun rays, no Bone, no people food. Just me, a cold floor and a whimper in my heart knowing that Squirt would be lounging in my favorite sunspot without me.

See, I’m not just any bulldog. I’m not bragging when I say I’m a big deal in Spencerville—Buddy, the Amiable. But that was before I was wrongfully doggy-bagged and thrown into The Kennel for something as absurd as kebab-pilfering.

“Alright, Buddy,” I said to myself, “time to channel that inner rogue.” You’ve read about those dashing picaresque heroes, right? Well, think of me as their canine counterpart; just a bit stockier with a greater love for nap times.

The plan was simple: rally my furry fellows, create a diversion, and then saunter out with the same casual elegance I use to leave a room I’ve just farted in. Sound, isn’t it?

Day one, I befriended a Chihuahua with a Napoleonic complex called ‘Tiny Terror.’ Let me tell you, that pup could yap a plan into a full-blown canine uproar with just a few high-pitched rants. Day two, I wooed the guards with my soulful eyes, while the cats back at home would have scoffed and called it manipulation. I call it…strategic alliances.

I had to act fast. A bulldog’s charm might be timeless, but my time in the clink was not. Every sunset I missed was a thorn in my paw.

So, on a day the humans call “Thursday” (I had licked off the marker doodles on my cell calendar), it all went down. Tiny Terror kicked off the ruckus with a bark that could shatter glass, and the pups joined in with such harmonized howling you’d think we’d practiced (we did, a little).

And in the glorious pandemonium of barking and wagging tails, I made my move. Aided by a St. Bernard—a tank on legs named Bertha—we rammed the gate. It was not elegant. There might have been drool. But it worked!

We spilled into the streets of Spencerville like a pack of merry bandits. I, of course, headed straight for home, dreaming of Henry, Squirt, and Star’s shocked faces, sunspots to be reclaimed, and savory treats to be negotiated.

Alas, freedom tasted sweeter than the faint dream of a K9 Kebab. Freed from confinement, cleared from accusations (Turned out to be a misunderstanding involving a clever disguise and a mischievous poodle), I returned to my legendary spot, understanding that sometimes, you have to be your own hero.

So here I sit now, soaking up the sun, a dash wiser, and with a story to tell. I guess you could say I’m Buddy, the Breakout Bulldog of Spencerville. But let’s just stick with “Amiable,” shall we?

The End.