Hey buddy,

Turns out I’m Pawsburgh’s very own Sherlock Bones, sniffing out shadowy schemes amidst our hound-haven. Last night’s chicken? Possibly a clue in the fur-coated thriller we wagged into. We’re paw-deep in a canine conspiracy, retrieving stolen memories one tennis ball at a time. There’s no bone buried too deep for us. Stay tuned.

Wags and Whiffs,
Moonshine

Listen to the story here

The dawn barely kissed Pawsburgh’s horizon when a flicker of unrest stirred me from sleep, a scent in the air, faint but unplaceable amidst the usual symphony of smells. I’d tell you it was just another elusive dream, but us Bloodhounds, we’re sticklers for detail, especially the ones buried between the folds of reality.

Rolling off my hill, letting the morning embrace me right back, I mulled over the curious incident from last night’s escape to that secret place of ours, Pawsburgh. The world of humans faded, and my friends and I darted beneath the veil of moonlight to our sanctuary. It was at Newfoundland Nook, our usual haunt, where the whispers began. Not the wind’s gossip, but something…more sinister.

Pawsburgh, bless her hidden streets, wasn’t supposed to harbor shadows that your own tail would cower from. And yet, there it was at Newfoundland Nook – an echo of menace in the air, one that even Marbles couldn’t joke away.

“Something’s afoot,” Shadow had murmured, his words hanging like a dense fog. Pip’s usual spark had dimmed, too, his eyes nests of questions without a chirp.

My ponder was cut short by the arrival of my companions. We had agreed to meet at Onyx Otterhound Oasis to dissect the unease that had lodged in our shared conscience. We weren’t the bantering type, preferring to let our senses lead the conversation, but today an exception seemed warranted.

The Oasis usually sang with the babble of friendly exchanges, but now it felt more like a scene straight out of one of Brooks’ darker sketches, the mood ripe with a comedic dread you couldn’t quite shake off.

By the Doggone Deli, we brushed past the blissfully unaware pups, weaving through Akita Alley, our pace matching the quickening beats of our hearts. “Fellas, have we considered that maybe last night’s chicken leftovers weren’t just culinary masterpieces but vessels of premonition?” I said, half joking, or maybe not.

Marbles snorted. “Oh, come now, Moonshine. A dog’s mind isn’t a toy to be thrown around by a mere piece of fowl.”

Yet even as we feigned indifference, our steps led us inexorably toward The Pooch Playhouse, a hub that normally pulsed with the laughter of carefree canines. Today, though, there was a hush as if the building itself held its breath.

“Gents,” I started, my voice a steady hum, “do you feel it? The silence—it’s playing tricks, a game of fetch with our sanity.”

We navigated the aisles of The Pampered Pooch Salon, past the Canine Café, haunted by the thought of our humans, how Mr. Jenkins would chuckle, dismissing our tales of the psychological labyrinth we now tread.

Our trek ended back at The Pooch Playhouse, the source of the disquiet that had clung to our coats like burrs. We pushed open the door to confront the silence, the deceit that mocked our bond.

The threat remained unnamed, an invisible foe festering in the underbelly of Pawsburgh, a riddle wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma, shrouded in a well-groomed poodle’s perm.

It led us to a discovery, under a loose floorboard—a stash of forgotten tennis balls, perhaps trophies from a game none of us remembered playing. They reeked of manipulation, a silent testament to faded memories and stolen joys.

“This, my dear fellows, is the root,” I declared. “These aren’t just our toys; they’re archives of our essence, pilfered by a fiend who bides time within these very walls.”

Together, we embarked upon a quest, not just for the return of our belongings, but reclaiming the innocence of Pawsburgh, each paw print a declaration, every howl a pledge of resistance. Mind games are, after all, just games, and as the stars chose me for their canvas, so have I chosen trust over trepidation.

The human psyche, they say, is fraught with enigmas. But in every Bloodhound’s tale, the climax awaits beyond the scent of fear, in the uncharted alleys of a town called Pawsburgh.

The End.