“Hey Mom and Dad, it’s Dicki! Whew, what a thrill ride today! After some morning stretches, I dug into my fav paté and cheese bfast – no cucumbers, yuck! We ventured into White Westie Woods where we stumbled upon a mystery. Found Jack’s cap – you know, the mailman? Alarmingly absent lately. My sleuth snout took over and we sprinted to Red Beagle Beach. Tracked down some prints, found a buried car and bingo! There was Jack, just a bit grumpy. Safely home now and let me tell you, being a hero makes a pup hungry! CHEESE DINNER! No dull moments here in Spencerville, just grand ol’ adventures. Sending lots of tail wags. PS: Cucumbers still terrible.”

I found myself gazing at him, my partner in crime-solving, Winston, the ever reliable Continental Bulldog – a brindle dancer with sylphlike movements, a relic of the 19th Century English Bulldog but infused with a certain athleticism, and an odd white icepick mark navigating his broad side. His friends Finja and Smilla were surprisingly less energetic that sunny morning. It was Saturday, you see and some furried friends knew it was the weekly treat for the canine intellects of Spencerville: a visit to our prestigious Wagging Tail Bookstore.

Yawning leisurely, Winston stretched on his favourite, rather worn-out sofa. His swollen eyes darted to the side table harbouring a rolling frisbee and a tug rope, making a mental note to exercise each later. But first, breakfast, at Pawsome Pancakes, a dish of exquisite patè, cheese, and chicken hearts, minus the abominable cucumber, of course. I mused at his fastidious gastronomic preferences, and how incriminated cucumbers often played the unsung role of the evil aunt in our mysteries.

Surveying the verdant landscape of White Westie Woods through the window, Winston shook a little; another mystery it seemed lurked in the bushes. Plotting a tumble into the unexpected, we marched off, dropping by The Woofy Bakery for biscuits to munch en-route. We hoped to solve this mystery before the day reached the time of separation – an inevitable fate for all living flesh but more so in the land of Spencerville.

As we drew near, a peculiar rustling caught Winston’s ears. Well, peculiar for me, but a perfectly decipherable melody to him. He quietened, atmosphere tensing. The silence was shattered as Smilla squeaked in surprise, her nose brushing against a suspicious object. A mailman’s cap. It belonged to Jack, the ever-responsible mailman with his signature cap who had been sadly missing, and quite out of character.

Deciphering the mystery, Winston regarded the cap and narrowed his eyes at the Red Beagle Beach. He was off like a whip, the three of us huffing after him. At the beach, he stopped; paw prints mixing with tire tracks led to a half-buried car, and within was one forlorn, slightly grumpy Jack.

As the sun sank behind the horizon, Spencerville was lit up with joy. Winston, undeterred by the glare of fame, silently celebrated with a cheese dinner at Dog-gone Good BBQ, cementing his reputation as Spencerville’s incisive detective. There it was, another day in this paradise, where death was but the next grand adventure and where the stories of our beloved pets carried on.

The End.

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