Buddy and Carl's Final Heist

As told by Buddy DeDog

By the time I turned two, I’d seen enough of the streets to know the difference between a good plan, a bad plan, and a Carl plan. Carl plans were their own category — loud, overconfident, and held together with the kind of optimism only a squirrel with no sense of danger could possess.

This one was no different.

We were crouched behind O’Malley’s Deli, the cold night air biting at my ears. The smell of smoked meats drifted through the cracked window, and Carl paced back and forth on the dumpster lid like a general preparing for a battle he didn’t understand.

“Buddy, my boy,” he said, puffing out his chest, “this is the big one. The score that sets us up for weeks. Maybe months. We’re talking turkey slices, ham chunks, maybe even pastrami if the deli gods smile upon us.”

I nodded, though I already saw the holes in his plan. Carl never checked for cameras. Never checked for humans. Never checked for anything except whether the food smelled good.

“Here’s the play,” Carl continued. “I slip in through the window, grab the goods, toss them down to you, and we’re out. Clean. Simple. Elegant.”

He always said that. It was never clean. Never simple. Never elegant.

But I let him talk. Let him feel like the mastermind. Meanwhile, I scanned the alley, counted exits, listened for footsteps, and mapped out the fastest escape route. Carl thought I was the muscle. He had no idea I was the brain too.

Carl squeezed through the window with a grunt. I heard a crash. Then another crash. Then something that sounded like a stack of metal trays collapsing.

“Everything’s fine!” he whisper‑shouted.

It was not fine.

A light flicked on inside. A human voice yelled. Carl squeaked — loudly — and I saw him scramble toward the window, only to get snagged on a hanging apron.

“Buddy! Buddy, I’m compromised!”

I sighed. Every heist. Every time.

The deli owner grabbed Carl by the tail, holding him up like a misbehaving sock puppet. Carl flailed, shouting, “Unhand me, you brute! I know people!”

I didn’t have time to rescue him. And Carl knew the rules: if one gets caught, the other gets away. Survival first. Regret later.

So while the human was distracted with one panicking squirrel, I slipped inside through the back door Carl had conveniently left open during his chaos. I grabbed what I could — a whole rotisserie chicken, half a salami, and a bag of something that smelled like heaven — and bolted out the alley before anyone noticed.

By the time I reached our hideout, I had enough food to last days. Maybe a week if I rationed it. Carl eventually showed up hours later, smelling like disinfectant and humiliation.

“Buddy,” he said, voice shaky, “that… did not go as planned.”

I looked at him — really looked at him. Older. Sloppier. Reckless. A liability I could no longer afford.

“Carl,” I said quietly, “this was our last job.”

He froze. “Last? As in… last last?”

I nodded.

He didn’t argue. He knew. We both did.

Some partnerships end with a fight. Ours ended with a deli heist.

And as I ate my well‑earned chicken that night, I realized something important:

Sometimes letting go is the smartest move a dog can make

©2023

BuddydeDog