Hey Mom,

Just had to orchestrate a doggone genius revenge on Dukie for burying my fave toy. Swapped it for a squirrel-scent frenzy at his party but ended it all with laughs and pie. Pawsburg justice is furry and sweet! All tails wagging here.

Licks and wags,
Your little gavone, Bernie 🐾😉

So there I was, Bernie, that dashing dachshund of Pawsburg, plotting retaliation. It was the sort of day in Topaz Terrier Town where the sun hung in the sky like a golden retriever’s frisbee, just itching to be snatched.

Now, you must understand my disdain isn’t without warrant. Dukie, that little Pomeranian pipsqueak of a pal, had committed the ultimate sin—burying my prized rubber chicken beneath the weeping willows of Hound Heights. To add insult to injury, my beloved squeaker was replaced with a rotting broccoli stalk! The audacity!

My retribution needed to be clever—a pie from Pom’s Pies perhaps? Too sweet of revenge. The goal was to astonish without causing a permanent scuffle in the dogpile. After all, Dukie is as delicate as the pastries in that fine establishment.

I consulted with Jupiter, whose size was eclipsed only by his uncanny ability to see the big picture, and George, whose nose for mischief often bested his skill at tracking scents in the park. We sat at Dog’s Delicacies, our four-legged frame dwarfed by the rustic decor. Mine was a bowl of chicken stew—pure, unadulterated heaven—while my companions chewed on the quandary at paw.

“I say we snuggle every toy of his with the scent of cat,” George opined between slurps, that mischief-glazed look twinkling in his eye.

Jupiter simply nodded, his gentle nature a stark contrast to the grandiose settlements of Hound Heights, “Not a half-bad plan, but, Bernie, old chap, you fancy a subtler approach, yes?”

I licked a dewdrop of gravy from my whiskers and pondered, “Absolutely. I’m not one to bar the gate after the horse has cantered away. This requires something… finesse.”

So I orchestrated an escapade worth the barks. I had George sneak into The Barking Boutique and liberally douse a new toy chicken, an exact doppelganger of mine, with Essence de Squirrel—a concoction that sends us, canines, into a frenzy. As Dukie is hosting his fancy birthday bash at The Canine Café, the toy will be presented as a token of my ‘forgiveness’ for that broccoli farce.

As the birthday revelry unfolded, the scents of the café—rich bone marrow soup and crispy bacon bites—mingled with the unchecked excitement of my pals. The moment Dukie laid his eyes on the chicken, it was clear he was over the moon—or at least, over Pomeranian Park.

With each shake of that fake fowl, the canine crowd became more and more unhinged, overwhelmed by the smell that drives even the best of us absolute mutts. “What is this sorcery?” Dukie yapped, panicked, as every dog’s eyes gleamed with desire for the chicken.

After the canine chaos subsided, and Dukie’s baffled expression softened into understanding, I trotted over to my friend, a sly grin spreading across my snout.

“Revenge is a dish best served furry,” I quipped, Dorothy Parker’s wit flowing through my canine veins. My joke was met with a cacophony of howls that echoed through the halls of Dog’s Delicacies.

But rather than end on a growl, I unveiled the real squeaky rubber chicken, safe and sound, snuggled next to a slice of Pom’s finest pie—triple chicken treat flavor. Surrounded by my loyal crew in the heart of Pawsburg, the sting of betrayal melted into a tail-wagging comedy of errors.

And so, revenge was served—not with fangs but with frolic. As for the real lesson learned here? Never bury another pup’s chicken. Or at least, don’t get caught. After all, in Pawsburg, life is too short for holding grudges, but just long enough for playing the longest, most charming game of payback.

The End.

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