Hey Mom,

You won’t believe it—I almost pulled off The Great Chicken Strip Robbery at The Woofy Bakery. Nearly had it until Miss Muffin caught us. Ended up striking a deal: I’m going legit and working off the debt. No more heists, just honest tail wags from now. Who knew trouble had such a waggy tail?

Bashi 😅🐾🍗

Okay, hold onto your leashes, folks, because it’s storytime and I, Sebastion, have quite the tail (wink) to tell you. So, there I was in Pawsburgh, sitting pretty on a sunbeam like it owed me rent, when Charlie bounded up with a plan wilder than my hair in the morning.

“Sebastion, my man,” Charlie panted, his eyes gleaming with the kind of mischief that would give a cat nine heart attacks, “it’s time for the ultimate score. The Woofy Bakery. Think of it: chicken strips as far as the nose can smell!”

My ear perked up, the other flopped in solidarity. “Charlie, you dreamer,” I drawled, “Rob the bakery? That’s… genius.”

So, with the stealth of suburban squirrels, we rallied the crew at Pinscher Plaza: whiskery Walter, ever so dapper in his doggy tux, and Penelope – yes, the cat who decided that we canines might be onto something with our escapades.

The plan was wicked simple. On the eve of the Great Howling Moon festival, with every hound and pup at Malamute Mountain, we would infiltrate The Woofy Bakery. Slip in, lift the chicken strips, slip out. Bam! I was to play the leading man, because honestly, who could resist my adorably wonky ears?

Under the cloak of dusk, Pawsburgh was ours for the taking. Well, except for the part where Walter got his tux caught on a rose bush – who plants those thorny monstrosities anyway?

“We’re almost there.” I whispered, my spotty coat blending in with the shadows as I led the way. We had a system; Walter watched for any night prowlers, while Penelope used her purr-fected stealth to scout ahead.

The Woofy Bakery loomed ahead, its windows dark, smelling unassumingly of dreams and dough, and of course, those oh-so-scrumptious chicken strips.

We arrived at the back door, and that’s when we hit a snag. A new, gargantuan lock, shining like the very bane of my heisting career. No bone about it, we were stuck. Or so it seemed…

Penelope, purring in annoyance (fine, a hiss), slinked up to the door and – I kid you not – whipped out a bobby pin. Don’t ask me why she had it; in Pawsburgh, cats are more enigmatic than the Bermuda Triangle.

Click. The door swung open, as if it knew better than to mess with a feline on a mission.

My heart did a samba as we tip-toed in, the scent of chicken strips hit me like a love song. Shelves of treats called out, golden-brown and glistening.

We stuffed our bags, but just as I grabbed a strip and sniffed it like the finest connoisseur, sirens split the air. No, not the police. Worse.

“Sebastian James!” the voice boomed, and my soul felt the chill. It was Miss Muffin the Bichon Frise, The Woofy Bakery’s owner and the only dog in Pawsburgh who could out-bake and out-bark anyone.

Busted. She stood there, paws akimbo, her apron dusted with flour. “Planning a little party, are we?”

I did the only thing a charismatic, spot-adorned criminal mastermind could do. I flashed her my most charming smile—and blamed everything on Charlie.

But Miss Muffin, with a twinkle in her eye, just chuckled. “Oh, Sebastion,” she sighed, “What am I going to do with you?”

As it turns out, we struck a deal. No more heists, and we’d work off our debts with our tails wagging. The Great Chicken Strip Robbery was no more, but our legend? Oh, it lives on in every bark and meow in Pawsburgh.

Moral of the story? Sometimes the best-laid plans are just a prelude to a good belly rub and learning that life’s treats come not from a heist, but from the simple joy of friendship… and a well-negotiated pardon.

The End.