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The morning the puppies went to town, the sky was the color of warm cocoa and the sidewalks smelled like yesterday's rain. Biscuit, the smallest of the litter, stood at the edge of the porch with one paw lifted, as if testing the temperature of the whole world.

"You sure about this?" asked his sister, Muffin, whose ears were twice the size of her head and not yet fully under her control. Biscuit nodded with the gravity of a puppy who has rehearsed a decision in front of a water bowl.

They tumbled down the steps together — four paws, then eight, then a confused tangle of sixteen — and set off toward town. The path wound past a bakery that puffed clouds of butter into the air, past a bookshop where an old tabby napped on a stack of adventure novels, and past a fountain that Biscuit was certain contained at least one duck.

A Town Made for Small Feet

In the square, a child dropped half a pretzel. Muffin considered this a sign from the universe. Biscuit considered it lunch. They shared, of course, because puppies who go to town together share their pretzels — it's an unwritten law, somewhere near the chapter on belly rubs.

A man with a brown coat tipped his hat at them. A woman with a brown bag offered a scratch behind the ear. Even the cobblestones, warmed by the autumn sun, seemed to lean a little closer, eager to be walked upon by such important guests.

By the time the streetlamps blinked on — gold, then amber, then a soft caramel glow — Biscuit and Muffin had collected: three new friends, one slightly chewed leaf, and the satisfied tiredness that only a day of true adventure can deliver.

They padded home slowly, leaning into each other at the corners. And Biscuit, who had once been the smallest puppy on the porch, decided that towns were excellent places, but porches — especially ones with siblings on them — were the very best.

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