Buddy & Carl vs The Bakery
5/1/20262 min read
As told by Buddy DeDog
Carl called it “The Heist of the Century,” which should’ve been my first warning. Any time someone gives their own plan a dramatic title, it usually means the plan is held together with hope, duct tape, and delusion.
It was late evening, the kind where the cold settles low to the ground and creeps into your paws. The bakery’s back door was cracked open, letting out a warm glow and the smell of fresh bread — the kind of smell that makes your stomach forget it’s empty and start dreaming big.
Carl paced back and forth on the dumpster lid like a general preparing for war.
“Alright, Buddy. You create a distraction. Bark, knock something over, fake an injury — whatever feels natural. While the human is distracted, I slip inside, grab the goods, and we’re out. Clean. Simple. Elegant.”
I nodded, even though I already saw three major flaws. One: Carl had no idea how loud he was being. Two: The baker wasn’t alone tonight. Three: Carl’s idea of “slipping inside” was about as subtle as a marching band.
But I kept quiet. Let him think he was the brains. It made things easier.
I trotted toward the door, nudged a metal bucket, and let it clatter. The baker looked up, muttered something about “those darn raccoons,” and stepped outside.
Perfect.
Carl darted in.
Not perfect.
Because Carl immediately knocked over a tray of croissants. Then he slipped on the flour-covered floor. Then he panicked and grabbed the first thing he saw — a single loaf of bread — even though there were entire racks of pastries behind him.
I watched from outside as he scrambled out the door, dragging the loaf like it weighed more than he did. The baker spotted him, shouted, and threw a rolling pin that missed Carl by an inch but hit me square in the shoulder.
I didn’t yelp. I had my pride.
We ran until we reached our alley, panting clouds into the cold night air. Carl dropped the loaf triumphantly.
“Success!” he declared.
I stared at the loaf. One loaf. One. From a bakery filled with enough food to feed a small army.
“That’s it?” I asked.
Carl wiped flour off his face. “Quality over quantity, my friend.”
I didn’t say anything. I just tore off a piece of bread and chewed slowly, thinking.
We should’ve had pastries. We should’ve had rolls. We should’ve had enough food to last days.
Instead, we had… this.
Carl was still celebrating, pacing around like he’d just robbed a bank.
“See, Buddy? With my brains and your muscle, we’re unstoppable.”
I nodded, but inside, I was reevaluating everything.
Carl had heart. He had hustle. He had confidence.
But he didn’t have strategy. He didn’t have awareness. He didn’t have… well… me.
And if we were going to survive out here — really survive — I needed to decide whether Carl was an asset… or a liability I was dragging along.
I didn’t make that decision that night. But the thought stayed with me.
And thoughts like that don’t go away.