Hey Mom,

Crazy story – got accused of stealing Lamb Chops toys, nabbed by the dog pound, and broke out with Sadie! We’re on the lamb (heh), plotting to clear my name. I know, sounds barking mad, but worry not. Spaghetti’s calling and I’m no thief. Paws crossed, you raised a good boy! 🐾

Hugs and head tilts,
Rockie

Sometimes, in the wink of a dog’s dream, my four paws find themselves strolling down Whippet Way, the lamp posts embarking on their twilight shimmering just as the world of two-legs fades into slumber. Yesterday was no different—or so I planned—as I trotted across Briard Bridge, a stone arc as grand as any tail-wagging tale spun in the Canine Café.

For the upteenth time, Sadie was at my side, the gleam in her eye reflecting Pawsburgh’s stars twinkling on Eskimo Estuary. “Rockie,” she barked, low and conspirational, “they’re serving spaghetti at Paw Pad Thai tonight!”

Her words caught like a ball in my throat. “Spaghetti,” I nearly howled, thinking of the strands like golden leashes of joy waiting to dance on my tongue. An unconventional feast for a Manchester Terrier, perhaps, but irresistible—a wordless song that only my taste buds knew the melody to.

Yet, fate, that fickle pup, had other designs. As we passed Labrador Lunch, the scent of a savory Bark Buffet hit me—a scent that was unmistakable, unmistakably mine. And there in an open window, two silhouettes, not of dogs, but stolen Lamb Chop plushies, each echoing the faithful toy snoozing in my bed.

“My Lamb Chop!” I yelped before panic gave way to a charge, my paws a drumroll, the world a blur until, well, until darkness clamped around me like a crate.

“Barking up the wrong tree, aren’t ya?” A voice snapped me to the here and now. A pound, Pawsburgh’s—ugh, Pound. I was caged, surrounded by puzzled muzzles and tail-wags of commiseration. A framed mugshot hung, my image, “WANTED: Thief of Pawsburgh’s Precious Pillows.”

Words failed, like the ocean’s whisper failing the sand. Me, Rockie, a thief? Spaghetti forgot, Sadie a shadow in my imprisoned predicament. With whiskers quivering, I planned, plotted—my canine cranium crafting a caper of my own.

Night was my blanket as the clock’s paws pointed to our secret hour. “Sadie,” I whispered through the mesh, the echo of some Grisham-esque protagonist, “I’m getting out.”

“Shhh, Rockie,” she nuzzled her snout close, “we break out at the stroke of Kibble.”

“Kibble,” a formidable hour when guards took to feasting and eyes grew heavy with sated slumber. Then, with the nimbleness befitting Pawsburgh’s most miscast renegade, I nudged the latch with my nose—a puzzle for any other breed, perhaps, but my own unique spirit found ways even Houdini would bark applause at.

Escape is a sequence, a series of sprints, dashes, ducks, and dives. We slipped through Canine Couture Clothing’s back door, Sadie and I, collars jangling like freedom’s call. We ducked into Best in Show Photography, our reflections splintered in glass—fugitives on the run, outlaws unjustly famed.

Under the cool caress of night’s breeze, whisking us across the estuary, Briard Bridge loomed. I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d ever again pad freely upon it.

“Rockie!” Sadie’s voice was tense as a leash pulled too tight. Flashing torches, barks of pursuit. They were onto us.

But then, magic—a boat hidden amongst rushes, an oar resting as an invitation. The water was our refuge, our paws our destiny as we paddled hard against the current.

“Go, Rocky! Spaghetti awaits!” Sadie cheered, her panting mixed with the sounds of water lapping against our hasty vessel.

We drifted, the shores of Pawsburgh a memory, our crime washed away in the tide, our honor resting on proving my innocence. For even in this dog dreamt world, the truth held a bone that needed to be unearthed.

The shore approached with a whisper, a beach where I’d again run free, where my innocent fun would echo against the lapping waves, and where I’d dig to uncover the real plush pilferer.

For now, we escaped under the stars’ guidance, innocent until proven guilty in a world gone barking mad. I was Rockie, the Manchester Terrier—more than just a silhouette against a backdrop of adventures yet to be lived and tales yet to be told. A good boy? Yes. A thief? Never. And that, my friend, is a tail worth chasing.

The End.