Hey Pal,

Just finished sniffin’ out a whopper of a case here in Pawsburgh — swiped cologne, a trio of guilty terriers, and a whole lotta canine shenanigans. My nose did the talking and justice wagged its tail in the end. When it comes to barkin’ up the right tree, ya know I’m the chorkie for the job!

Catch ya at the Wagging Tail,
Coco 🐾

Listen to the story here

(This intriguing caper, conveyed in the timbre of a Twainian narrative, brings to life the charming rascality of our canine hero, Coco.)

Now, I ain’t one to gossip, but if you’ve set down for a tail or two, lend me that ear of yours, the one that don’t mind the doggone truth. I happened upon quite the predicament within the whimsical bounds of grand ol’ Pawsburgh—though I’m merely a humble chorkie from humdrum walks of life; ain’t nothing humble about what I’m fixing to unfold.

It was a scorching afternoon; the kind that makes the pavement sizzle like the last sausage at a Fourth of July cookout. So I headed over to the Blue Basenji Bay for a dip—the water there’s always crisp and cooler than a polar bear’s toebeans in January.

As I shook the droplets from my coat, I rambled on to that cherished haunt, The Wagging Tail Bookstore. There, a curious sight beheld these nut-brown eyes of mine. Max, that wiener dog with fierce loyalty and an unfortunate knack for flim-flammery, was pacing ’round like a cat on a hot tin roof.

“Coco, something’s amiss,” he barked, his voice as shaky as an aspen leaf in a gale.

“What’s the trouble?” I inquired, feeling the hairs on my back stand up like the crowd at a carnival show.

“It’s Jasper,” he yipped. “Went to fetch his special order from The Groom Room, and it’s gone—stolen, by the looks of it!”

Now this Jasper, who in his golden years had seen more sunsets than he had teeth left, cherished nothing more than that Bowen Arrow Cologne—made him smell like a young pup, he’d wag. I was bound and determined to sniff out this crime, with my pals by my side.

So, off we sauntered, the sun gilding our tails, to Pom’s Pies, where Bella the poodle sipped on mineral water with not a care in the world. “An investigation?” she simpered, as feigned surprise danced in her shampooed lashes. “I wouldn’t dare miss it.”

Golden Grub was our first stop, thinking maybe temptation led to the thievery. Who could resist the aromas that wafted out that joint like whispers of a siren’s song?

“Seen anyone with a particularly shiny coat ’round here?” I ventured, addressing the hound behind the counter.

“Only falls who’ve been to Spa for Paws, Coco,” he replied, nonplussed as a monk in deep reflection.

That was a cold trail—if the thief got a fresh shine, they were clever enough not to show it. We progressed to Garnet Greyhound Grove, scouting for any telltale signs when, lo and behold, from a distance I eyed something peculiar at Samoyed Square.

“‘Tis the scent of scandal,” I quipped, my nose twitching as I neared the culprits. Three scruffy terriers poking their noses over a sack that smelt strangely like…Bowen Arrow?

“Why, you scallywags!” Jasper bellowed, his bark booming like thunder over the horizon.

The terriers, taken aback at the sight of Jasper’s indignant ensemble, whimpered like outlaws at a lineup. “We thought it’d make us popular, like he is,” they confessed, their eyes droopier than my perennially flopped ear.

Mercy being the better part of valor, Jasper forgave them—after all, every dog deserves a second chance, even those pilfering pups. And as we ushered them toward Golden Grub for a reconciliatory bite, the last rays of the day cast a golden glow, and Pawsburgh, that land of doggish dreams, twinkled with the promise that every dog has his day—even if it is shadowed by a little misadventure.

The End.