Hey there El,

Just wrapped up another nightly escapade in Pawsburgh – mystery solved! Think Sherlock Holmes with a tail. Turns out the missing ‘steak’ was just a chicken diversion and, surprise, lemons were key! All in a day’s work for Pawsburgh’s fave detective 😎. Dreams now filled with the next wild caper.

Catch you in the AM,
Christine “The Sleuthhound” Gleason 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

As the clock’s hands embark on their nocturnal journey, my miniature kingdom on high stills to slumber, save for one. There I was, Christine L Gleason, adventure-seeker and sly-eyed strategist, preparing to slip unnoticed into the enchanted realm of Pawsburgh. In my tapestry of brindle fur woven by the hand of Temperament herself, I scurried through the hitherto unseen portal beneath the wardrobe.

This evening was destined for a fairy tale, one with a distinctive twist, a dash of Dorothy Parker’s dry wit to spark the fire. There was talk, you see, throughout Pawsburgh’s storied lanes, of a lavishly adorned steak gone missing from Mastiff’s Meals. The tale of the missing dinner, a Cinderella for the canine crowd.

The commotion was unmistakable even as I trotted into Mastiff Meadows, where the whispers of dogwood trees swirled with rumors and jests. “Marvellous, a soiree in full swing, and I’m the unpunctual princess,” I mused, my tone rich with an irony one might find tucked within the pages of a Parker diary.

Horatio and George hastened to my side as I navigated Lhasa Lane, the latter’s tongue flapping with each resounding bark.“Christine, do grant us the pleasure of your investigative prowess,” said George, a hint of urgency beneath his boisterous façade. Horatio napped in agreement, an art refined to perfection.

“Pawsburgh’s steak, the proverbial glass slipper,” I quipped, tail held high. “Together, we shall sniff out the intrigue betwixt hither and yon.” Our search commenced posthaste, Horatio’s tales of rooftop reconnaissance providing a blueprint of possible heist haunts, while George’s infectious laughter diffused the evening air with ease.

Our intrepid pursuit led us to the stunning panorama of Emerald Eskimo Estuary, where the glistening waters often held secrets of their own. It wasn’t long before I sniffed out the entrancing aroma of… chicken?

“Curious,” I mused, paw to chin. “Our missing steak, it appears, is replaced by a poultry plot.” The scent called to me, a siren’s song for my keen snout, and I followed it to a peculiar tableau—a feast laid upon the banks, a banquet absent of bovine.

“The tale turns!” I gleamed with gumption. “Our thief has a penchant for poultry. Indeed, the embezzlement was not of a steak, but a clever ruse devised by an unseen hand.”

George’s tail wagged furiously as Horatio nodded sagely, his Siamese eyes glinting with delight at the unraveling fable. We crossed paths with Pawsburgh’s confectioner, a dapper Dachshund named Darcy, nibbling on a Woof Waffle with an air of nonchalance.

“Pray, good sir, was’t a chicken entrée you ordered?” I inquired, each word a careful step upon the cobblestones of conversation.

Darcy’s ears perked, “Why, only the finest at Mastiff’s for this gent!” he exclaimed, crumbs launching from his snout. “Though, methinks ’twas the chicken dish graced with lemons that left such an unsavory anecdote upon the hour!”

Lemons! The very thought sent a shiver down my spine, my snout affirming its objection. The mystery was clear; the thief and I shared a common distaste for the sour citrus.

With haste, I darted back to the site of the offense, my companions close behind. There, disgraced upon the ostentatious plate, lay a lemon—a single clue to the sin. I tilted my head, and with triumphant bravado, I announced, “The suspect is among us, yet flees from the citric truth!”

The crowd gathered gasped as paws covered muzzles in shock. From the shadows slinked a notorious lemon loather, a Spaniel known for his disparagement of tart tastes—Sir Reginald von Fluffypaws.

The steak, we learned, had been spirited away by one as dismayed by lemons as myself. As Sir Reginald recounted his tale, twas but a gambit for more palatable fare—a fairy tale go astray, but in delightful discourse, all was resolved.

And so another night’s tale in Pawsburgh drew to its close, with our mischievous mischief mended. With my beloved hamburger toy clenched triumphantly betwixt my teeth, I returned to my urban perch, my loft of liberty. There, I spun tales of night-time capers for Ellie, who was none the wiser, save for the crumbs of our fairy tale adventure spilling from my dreams.

The End.