Hey Mom,

Cracked the case of the stolen frisbee with Maggie. Turns out, we had to sniff around town, ruffle some fur among the local Rottweilers, and reclaim it with a side of drama and a wag of Maggie’s tail. Justice tastes better than peanut butter treats! Pawsburg’s safe again with the frisbee-filching fiends foiled.

Nighty night,
Jersey Bug 🐾✨

The culprits were as brazen as they come, the mongrels. Imagine, dear confidant, the very essence of audacity: a purloined frisbee. My frisbee. Call it grand theft. A circular treasure that had taken to the skies under my noble watch, now spirited away beneath the nefarious cloak of night.

I was resolved to my course of action, to claw justice from the paws of deception. With Maggie at my side, we prowled the dimly lit lanes of Pawsburg, the air crisp as anticipation nipped at our heels.

Our first clue lay at the doorstep of Hound’s Hotdogs, where our nightly escapades often found sustenance. This time, though, it was information we hungered for. The vendor, a sprightly Spaniel with eyes too round for his face, divulged that an ensemble of rascally Rottweilers had been seen flaunting a disc remarkably akin to my own. Aha! The plot thickened as does gravy atop Fido’s Feast signature dish.

Licking our chops at the scent of revelation, we sauntered over to Newfoundland Nook, its corners whispering secrets to those who chose to listen. The night was our accomplice, cloaking us in shadows as we scoured the avenue for the culprits. We were the picture of stealth, weren’t we Maggie? Save for the occasional snort and snuffle, which echoed with charming inelegance.

A canine silhouette materialized against the neon glow of Chowhound’s Chophouse. “Speak, or have your snout meet my rebuke,” I rumbled with exaggerated drama, channeling the prosecutorial tones of Spitz Spire lawholds.

The stranger – a Dalmatian, all dots and dubious demeanor – conceded that the guilty gang sought commemoration of their heist at Best in Show Photography. Indisputable evidence of their folly! Maggie wagged her tail with an ironic glee that would have made ol’ Kingsley chuckle in his grave.

We loomed at the threshold of the Woofy Bakery, taking in the heady aroma of victory (and peanut butter treats). We staged our retribution where all could behold, amidst a battalion of spaniels and terriers to serve as our audience.

“I’ll be about as subtle as a cat at a dog show,” I quipped as the deviant ensemble arrived, swelling with pride like pufferfish bereft of swell reason.

You see, to pilfer from Jersey is to elicit misfortune of the canine variety. The jig was up as the Rottweilers attempted futilely to blend into the crowd, looks of guilt sprouting from their muzzles betraying them as surely as breadcrumbs lead the famished to the pantry.

“Characters of ill-repute,” I began, treacle-thick with dramatic flair. “Your transgression hangs on the wall of the duplicitous. But you’ll find no solace in framing others, for a true Pawsburgian seeks restitution, not retribution.”

Maggie’s barked assent punctuated my discourse. “Return what is mine or find yourselves cast from our hallowed halls, exiled to the solitary musings of the Greenback Alley.”

Tail between their legs, the truth revealed in the flashbulb pop, the brood relinquished my frisbee. Justice was served hotter than Hound’s Hotdogs on a summer’s day.

As for me, I reclined that eve in the glories of a hero’s bravado, and the cherished disc once again at my paw. Sleep called, beckoning like The Woofy Bakery after a fast. And as Pawsburg faded into the hush of dreams, I was resolved to tomorrow’s frolic and fray, a chicken treat awaiting conquest, the taste of victory fresh upon my panting tongue.

The End.