“Hey, Ma. Funny day in Spencerville. We had a political thriller in pet land! Accused of stealing lemon scones and shady Pup-tizer dealings, evident by my ‘tooth-marks’. Found culprit was Slinky – tried to frame me to get felines control! Ending the day with chicken dinner, laughing over the fiasco. Squishface.”

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It’s a dull sort of early afternoon in Spencerville, not quite mealtime, still too early to nap, just the run-of-the-mill roundabout of sunshine and yawns. I find myself at the comforting shade under our ancient oak, my trusty green ball nudged to one side, Daisy and Storm completing our motley crew.

You see, Spencerville is a bit of political hotbed these days. Perhaps it’s the newfound newfound human-like existence, or the lure of power in Fawn Cream Maltese Meadow’s council. Until recently, it was just Storm, Daisy, and myself amusing ourselves with games and idle chat. These games, mind you, were between discussions on Spencerville’s politics, no qualms about Rosaurent, the Cocker Spaniel, mismanaging the Pup-tizers finances and skimming off the top of The Pawfect Training Center’s earnings, were aired.

Suddenly, a brusque meowing interrupts our late morning musings. It’s Slinky, the feline infiltrator from The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium, his sleek black coat gleaming, eyes inscrutable behind square spectacles. “Ol’ Rosco, the Council wants you. Some shady dealings with the Pup-Tizers, got your paw prints all over it.”

I cock my head, my brindle coat ruffling up in disbelief. Certainly, as a popular canine figure of Spencerville, politics is a charade I did have to contend with, but thef…? Nay, impossible. I was simply astounded, aghast. But Storm, oh stoic Storm nudges me, “You are the one, Roscoe. You go, sniff it out.”

Later at the council, Dogbert, the blue-eyed Akita who headed the Spotted Red Beagle Beach investigation, narrowed his eyes accusingly. “Roscoe Lonestar, we’ve found irregularities in the canteen stocks, and your tooth-marks on a lemon scone.”

A lemon scone! The accusation hit me harder than the harshest winters of Spencerville. I, who scrunches my nose at citruses, would be linked with a lemon scone… ludicrous! Determined then, I resolved to sniff out the true miscreant.

It was no easy paw-llowing, dear reader. Remarkably, it lead back to Slinky, the instigator. It was a clever charade to discredit the leaders of the town and bring in a new order, one ruled by felines. Some nifty paw-work and firm evidence in our possession halted their coup. The felines grudgingly retreated, the reigns of Spencerville secure once again.

That night, under the star-sprinkled Spencerville sky, over a hearty bowl of slow-cooked chicken at Chow Hound Café, Daisy, Storm and I mused over our day – our daily lives, a political thriller in a land of pets.

The End.

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