Hey Mom,

‘Tis your favorite gent Bronson Buns, finding myself a furry Poirot in Pawsburgh while you thought I was merely dreaming. Stumbled upon a bone-napped treasure, led the chase, sniffed out a pompous Pomeranian culprit. All just another day in our topsy-turvy canine world. Back to dreaming now. Catch ya tomorrow.

Signed,
Your Potato Head, Bronson

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Well, friends, I reckon it’s time to disclose a peculiar event that unfolded in the enigmatic borough of Pawsburgh, where dogs of every stripe convene whilst their two-legged companions believe them curled up, sawing logs on the living-room settee.

Now, as an English Bulldog of some distinction, I’ve grown accustomed to the tranquility of my own company, finding solace in the familiar rattle of my lopsided choppers and the gentle snore that escapes my snout as I dream. But the truth be told, when the human’s away, this stout-hearted chap embarks on escapades ‘neath the gilded dome of Canine’s sky.

‘Twas on a sun-dappled morn, not unlike any other, that I lumbered down Bichon Boulevard, with nary an inkling that a mystery most confounding would soon demand the full measure of my modest cunning. You see, the town’s prize, a gem unblemished as my own spine’s solitary spot, had vanished into thin air: the fabled “Chewbone of Buried Truths,” last seen where Quartz Qimmiq Quarter blinks its veiled secrets unto the observable world.

Aflutter with whispers of misadventure, Pawsburgh’s denizens—in all manners of fur and fidelity—sought my counsel, knowing well my affection for Enzo, the grumpy Chihuahua who runs The Pampered Pooch Salon alongside his emporium of whispered town tales.

Sauntering with that absent purpose that canines often affect, or so humans believe, I made for the Pawprint Pizzeria, where the scent did often tickle my fancy for cheese and improperly shaped vegetables of the cucumber variety. Enzo, with his whiskers twitching like the hands of a thief in a honey pot, briefed me over a saucer of gorgonzola.

“Bronson,” he declared, his tone sour as an unripe lemon, “this mystery is a knotted leash. You gotta sniff out the truth.”

The caper unfolded as such that I took to the cobblestones, my slobber-drenched jowls flapping, and probed the quartiers and corners, where scoundrels and scallywags alike might slumber unseen. It occurred to me, a beast of no small intellect—­consarn it, pride in one’s self-acknowledgement is no sin—that the culprit would surely be one with a taste for the rarefied.

Dawning that look of refined contemplation typical of my breed, I fancied the Golden Grub. There, beneath the halo of gaslights, I espied a pampered Pomeranian, fussing over her visage at Canine Couture Clothing next door, eyes darting like a cardinal in a storm.

“Madam,” I intoned with the grace of a southern gentleman, “might I inquire about yonder Chewbone of Buried Truths?”

Her yap fell silent; her gaze, guilty as sin.

Under a cascade of sleuthing more thrilling than our mutual distaste for baths, I unfolded her scheme. She sought to trade the illustrious Chewbone for a bespoke attire fitting of her regal ambitions, to become the toast of Pawsburgh’s upper crust.

In the candle’s flicker, I articulated our parley with neither growl nor snarl. The trade? Her whispered confession for a peanut butter bone, as luscious to the canine palate as my fabled loyalty to kith and kin.

As the town clock struck the hour of our humans’ twilight return, the mystery’s conclusion brought the Chewbone of Buried Truths back into the fold of its rightful place.

And the morrow? Why, it returned to mundane intrigue as myself, the sleuthing stalwart, swapped tales of grandeur with my human, in bouts of barks and wide, yearning eyes. For underneath the dome of stars, Pawsburgh—and the curiosities that stir within—waited for yon sun to set and the tales to recommence.

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