The Great Ice Cream Heist

The fluorescent lights of “Scoops Ahoy!” hummed with the relentless cheerfulness of a thousand tiny, sugar-fueled angels. It was, in short, Sandy’s personal version of heaven. And Arke’s. Well, Arke was attempting to make it his version of heaven, which mostly involved him standing rigidly by the door, looking like he’d accidentally wandered into a rave and was trying to calculate the optimal escape route.

“Are you *sure* this is necessary, Sandy?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the linoleum floor. He adjusted the collar of his admittedly rather fetching, but still far too formal, tweed jacket. It was a warm day. A *very* warm day. And the sight of Arke, all meticulously groomed mane and stiff posture, sweating profusely under his fur, was a testament to his ongoing struggle with Earthly comfort.

“Necessary? Arke, my darling, this isn’t just necessary, it’s *vital*,” I declared, practically bouncing on the balls of my feet. “This is the last day they’re making the ‘Cosmic Caramel Comet Swirl’ ice cream. It’s a limited edition. A *legendary* limited edition. People have been queuing for hours. It’s practically a cultural phenomenon.”