“Dad, Taken a stroll in Pawsburg, nibbled on quiche, steak, dodged oranges at Bone Appetit, harmonized howls at Siberian Summit. All in a day’s work for me, your resident pet-mob boss. Keeping Pawsburg safe, one squeaky duck at a time. PS: More steak, less fruit. Next time, fuggedaboutit! – H.”

Listen to the story here.

Another snore-laden night, another chance to swap my dad’s comfy couch for the vibrant thrumming thoroughfares of Pawsburg. I, Hoagie, pieced together from handsome brindle folds and bulldog bravado, ready to let loose of a city that never sleeps.

Yes, Pawsburg. The town where Dalmatian Desert shakes hands with Siberian Summit, and North Chihuahua Castle looms over Chow Hound Café. Ah, the café, where Quiche Lorraine and steak congregate in tantalizing harmony. Deliciousness, thy name is Hoagie.

There’s just something about that twinkle in the neon lights, it always got a mutt feeling like Sinatra in a trilby. Yet, as an acknowledged gastronome, the one place I gave a wide berth to was Bone Appetit. Believe it or not – they serve oranges. Oranges! Blasphemy! A citrus scandal makes your average mafia movie look like a dog’s dinner!

On this brindle-coated night, the surf against the Pawsburg sands was punctuated by an eerie dog howl. And that’s when I saw them – my crew – Chip, Bella, and Rex. You could call us the four musketeers—if Dumas had ever mustered the imagination to write about dogs!

And there we were, poised outside The Pampered Pooch Salon, packed with illegal squeaky rubber duckies. Who else would be gormless enough to, again and again, smuggle forbidden goods in a town crawling with canine mobsters?

Yet, we gabbed, we ate, we did the moonlit waltz around the Siberian Summit. With every chomp and crunch at Bow Wow Burger, we weaved in and out of being conspirators and well-fed partakers in the culinary delights of Pawsburg life. Every bone gnawed, every squeaky toy squawked, drew a red circle around why we put our tails on the line night after night.

As we orchestrated our top-secret meetings at our clandestine refuge, The Howling Husky Hardware Store, we transformed overnight into a de facto pet mob – The Dogfather squad running Pawsburg under our collective paw. And, boy, did we run it good!

By morning, I was back on the couch, a picture of sleepy suburban serenity. Dad, oblivious to my double life, strolled in; a pat, a scratch behind the ear, the glimmer of approval in his eyes. Both his – and our – world kept turning.

So, there you have it. Pawsburg, once again, was back under canine control. An English Bulldog, safecoat of brindle charm, and pet mob boss? It was a dog’s life alright, and it was mine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, steak’s on the menu. But oranges? Fuggedaboutit!

The End.