My name is Scoot-Skittles - and this is my story.

My friends call me Scoot-Skittles for short, and long. But you can just call me Scoot-Skittles, which is not short at all. Or long. I may very well may need a new name, or new friends. Or old friends with new names, or old names with new friends, and a dish of almonds just to break up the monotony - that is, you’ve forgotten the nutcracker.

Of course, Scoot-Skittles is not my real name at all, given my profession and all. As you may have guessed - although I have no idea how you would have after that whole name fiasco we’ve just lived through - I’m in the Selective Secret Service, K-9 Can-Do Division. I handle the humans - from the other end of the leash.

Ever since I was a pup, I knew what I wanted to be - besides bigger. And furrier. My littermates had dreams of the ultimate profession for our well-bred breed: a professional Scratcher. It’s not an easy life. You had to get used to lying around on a couch all day, staring out the window, growling at the delivery driver, and getting in some well-placed scratches. Granted, it was a lofty career goal, but the years of training it would take to learn how to tear up a throw pillow and then look innocent just wasn’t for me.

That’s why I decided to work for the government. I had a nose for crime, I had a handle on a collar, I spoke dialects, from German Shepard to Afghan Hound, to Yorkshire Terrier - although I found the Terrier’s habit of begging for crumpets for a treat at tea time rather peculiar. Besides, I’d look great in a pair of Ray-Bans.

I figured I’d work my way up gradually, starting with my neighborhood dog crime watch. When I noticed Fluffy pilfering blueberry donuts, I decided not to just roll over and play dead. I alerted the proper authorities - the Hound Handlers - which searched the neighborhood for a suspicious-looking dog with blueberry stains around his muzzle, holding its four legs to its belly and making sounds not heard since the old dog pound was impounded. No bad dogs indeed!

Not everyone was happy that I turned in Fluffy, aka Nutter. Sure, I earned the unfortunate nickname Scratch ‘n Snitch, but the Town’s K-9ers noticed me.

I made my share of rookie errors at first. I was somewhat taken aback when I heard I was assigned to the Illegal Rug Unit. I thought I’d get commended after I destroyed a valuable Persian carpet before learning a hard lesson of listening to every word.

After seven months - in dog years - I reached the pinnacle of my profession - the Secret Selective Service.

(Addendum: For security purposes, the government censor has edited the remaining 424 pages down to one word which it has cleared, and believes sums up Scoot-Skittles’ career): 

“Yikes.”