Hey Mom! Just saved the neighborhood by digging up that old bone the squirrels thought was a hidden treasure map. Who knew it was just an old shoe? Anyway, everyone’s wagging their tails again, and Mr. Snuffles even let me have his spot on the porch. Just another day keeping the peace. Hope you’re proud! 🐾 – Butters

The other day, while sunbathing by the shores of Poodle Pond, I—Buddy, your loyal neighborhood English bulldog with the impeccable brown and white coat—was roused by a commotion in Shepherd Skyline. Now, let me assure you, for a bulldog who’s known to be calm and stubborn, there’s precious little that can pull me from my sun-soaked slumber. But this particular clamor, like a persistent car alarm in a parking lot, was loud enough to match the shenanigans of a particularly enthusiastic cat vacuuming session back when I lived with Mom and my kitty siblings, Squirt and Star.

I squint through the brightness, my reflection catching in the water—a dashing figure who was loved by everyone, and who quite frankly, enjoyed everyone right back. My heart retains that feeling of missing Mom, though I know I’ll see her again.

The source of the brouhaha was Detective Rex, a German shepherd with an uncanny ability to sniff out trouble in Spencerville, even with the ease of life here. Word had reached him and the K-9 unit that some feline friends had been borrowing toys from Pawsitively Purrfect Pet Store without the proper bark-and-meow permission. The cat crew’s antics smacked of something more nefarious, perhaps downright corruption.

“We’ve got to tail ’em, Buddy,” Rex barked, his voice gravelly like the Tan Dalmatian Desert. “You know this town like the back of your paw.” The truth was, I’d known the town only so long as I’d been on the other side of the rainbow bridge. But I wasn’t a barker. I nodded and off we set, my bones clinking in my pocket as we passed Ruff-n-Ready, where even the tools seem to have tails outright wagging for action.

Our first stop, Bone Appetit, where tensions were simmering hotter than a steak left inadvertently beside my favorite sunbathing spot. It turns out that the dog treats were being snarfed at twice the speed they should have been. “Someone’s aiding the felines,” whispered Rufus, a pug peeking out from behind the bar.

With our noses switched to high gear, Rex and I found ourselves at Paws-A-Latte, where Whiskers, a Scottish fold known for her extraordinary latte art and even more unheard-of eavesdropping skills, confirmed our suspicions. Her tale was one of tails—a Town Council that no longer wagged for the pets but conspired with enterprising pigeons to swoop down on the gullible.

Our adventure unfolded like an episode of a drama series, each pat (and paw) leading us further into understanding the intricacies of Spencerville’s underbelly. As an English bulldog, I’d always been praised for my brick-laden courage smothered under a loving demeanor, but little did I know it would be my persistence in uncovering these paw-litical machinations that would lead us to disband their scheme.

By the end of this chapter, the felines were acquitted with a wag of tails and a promise to keep their paws off unauthorized cuddly contraband. And as for Rex and I, we returned to our sun-drenched neuks, knowing that this was just another day in the congenial chaos known as Spencerville, where whether dog or cat, loyalties and friendships remain as sturdy as an English bulldog’s resolve.