Hey Mom,

This is Inspector Frenchie. Spend my days sleuthing around Pawsburg with Mr. Squeaky. Today, cracked a flea collar theft at Cream Maltese Meadow– culprit was Sly, a fox-terrier with a cucumber issue. Celebrated with Pupsicles at the Bark Shak. All in a day’s work!

Love, Frenchie, your bulldog detective.

Listen to the story here

You’d think, given my stature and, as kids say, distinctively “smooshed” facial features, my life would be confined to nap-all-day tendencies and limited adventures. But kids, let me tell ya, I’ve had more fun in my canine life than a flea at a dog show.

You see, Pawsburg isn’t just a sleep town for dogs waiting for their human pals to come back from places they call “offices” and “graveyard shifts”. It’s a canine Woodstock, and when we English Bulldogs think midnight jamboree, our go-to is none other than the Bark Shak, a greasy spoon that’s got more attitude than a terrier confronted with an unchewed slipper.

My name is Frenchie, Pawsburg’s unorthodox gumshoe, and much of my detective work starts around a Bark Shak deep dish. Topped with my beloved grilled pineapple, it’s a dish that goes perfectly with my appetite for solving mysteries.

One rainy Tuesday, while I was with my partner in crime, Mr. Squeaky, sniffing out clues between slices of pizza, I noticed strange happenings at Cream Maltese Meadow. Usually a serene slice of paradise, the meadow was abuzz, dogs barking, tempers flaring.

A dachshund named Stretch had lost his precious flea collar. All paws pointed towards a sly fox-terrier named Sly. Well, now, I thought, as I finished my pizza, isn’t this a pretty pickle!

Mr. Squeaky and I took ourselves to Lower Golden Gate Gardens, Sly’s favorite haunt. The place smelled of daisies and a hint of intrigue – just how we like it. Only then, after snooping around and nosing a suspicious pile of leaves, did Mr. Squeaky and I unearth a clue—an achingly obvious paw print near the old oak.

Following the prints, we found ourselves before Spotted Red Beagle Beach. There, amidst doggy paddle enthusiasts, stood Sly, innocent as an unchewed bone. Nearby was a damp, partially buried cucumber – of all things – something I found as delectable as a live bath.

Swallowing down my distaste, I approached Sly and – in a masterstroke of canine cunning – traded him a soggy cucumber for, believe it or not, the missing flea collar. It seems, in Pawsburg, we all have our odd epicurean proclivities.

Thus, another day, another mystery solved in the life of Frenchie, the English Bulldog detective. At evening’s end, it was back to the Bark Shak for celebratory Pupsicles, our town’s nighttime chorus serenading us through another Pawsburgian adventure. Ah, life was doggone good.

The End.