BigSaltyDog

Behind a battered mahogany desk that had survived three decades of stray coffee spills, dog biscuits, and heavy paws, Sergeant Salty sat locked in mortal combat with his ultimate nemesis: municipal paperwork. Form 88-C—Request for Emergency Treat Requisition—stared back at him with cold, heartless bureaucracy.  Salty tapped his heavy wooden pencil against his jaw, his dark nose twitching as a stray sunbeam cut through the dusty Venetian blinds. Life as the top hound on the squad had its perks, but the desk work was a slow, grinding torture. He flexed his broad shoulders, adjusting the collar of his rumpled beige trench coat, and let out a long, heavy sigh that fluttered the stray receipts scattered across his blotter. Then, the frosted glass door swung open. It didn't just open; it glided open with the  precision of a Hollywood grand entrance. Framing the doorway were two absolute visions—a pair of magnificent blonde bombshells so stunning they could make a red lig...