"If you are a police dog, where's your badge?" - Question James Thurber used to drive his German Shepherd crazy.

James Thurber, a man with a twinkle in his eye and a mischievous grin perpetually plastered on his face, loved nothing more than teasing his beloved German Shepherd, Fritz. Fritz, a majestic creature with a noble lineage and a spirit as boundless as the open fields he loved to run in, was undeniably the most handsome dog on the block. James, however, found endless amusement in poking fun at his faithful companion, especially at the apex of Fritz's pride – his incredible nose for sniffing out trouble.

“If you are a police dog, where’s your badge?" James would bellow, crouching down to Fritz’s level, voice dripping with mock solemnity. Fritz, bless his furry heart, never understood the jest. He’d tilt his head, ears perked inquisitively, then obediently wag his tail, his brown eyes pleading for a treat, convinced he was being set up for a game of fetch. James, watching the confusion morph into a comical eagerness, would erupt into laughter, his sides shaking.

Their daily routine revolved around tennis balls, sticks, and, of course, James's good-natured ribbing. Fritz, oblivious to the humor, would diligently perform his duties as James’s shadow, following him everywhere, from his walk to the corner store to his meticulously tended vegetable patch, where James had sworn Fritz was responsible for the disappearance of several prized tomatoes.

One day, while strolling through the park, James, feeling particularly mischievous, decided to amp up the "police dog" charade. He found a little girl crying, inconsolable, a crumpled, tear-stained picture clutched in her tiny hand. James, with a twinkle in his eye, approached the girl and, leaning down, whispered to Fritz, “Look, Fritz, we’ve got a case! Find the missing pet!”

Fritz, sensing the seriousness in James’s voice,– a rarity since those "badihobo" comings-and-goings, as he affectionately termed them - perked up, sniffing attentively at the girl’s picture. He then took off, trotting through the park with an urgency James hadn't seen before.

He followed a faint scent, a musky trail usually indicative of a squirrel or a discarded hotdog, weaving through laughing children and sprawling picnic blankets. James, watching his dog’s unwavering focus, felt a surge of pride. He, himself, had been wrong. Doing justice to the metaphor, Fritz did possess a certain badge of honor, a badge worn not in metal but in deep loyalty and unwavering love.

Finally, Fritz, with a triumphant bark, stopped in front of a young woman frantically searching a tree. The lost cat was nestled in its branches, clinging to a slender twig. James, scrambling up the tree, gently rescued the kitten and handed it back to the thankful woman.

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” the woman exclaimed, beaming at James and Fritz. She knelt down, stroking Fritz's head. “What an amazing dog you have!”

James, still wrapped in the warmth of Fritz’s achievement, chuckled. “He's just doing his job," he said, a hint of wistfulness in his voice. "He’s our police dog, you see.”

Fritz, bathed in the approving gaze of the grateful family, wagged his tail, finally understanding the source of the "police dog" comment. He’d solved the case, apprehended the lost kitten, and maybe, just maybe, finally earned his invisible badge.