Hey buddy,

Successfully played dogtective last night & sniffed out a meatball heist masterminded by the Faux Felines. Negotiated like a pro (expect extra head pats) and retrieved the goods. The day’s saved & Pawsburgh can feast again. Who’s a good boy? Me.
🐾Micco, Pawsburgh P.I.

Listen to the story here

In the fabled streets of Pawsburgh, where fire hydrants are never scarce and every lamppost bears the wisdom of a thousand sniffed tales, there came a day (much like any other) that had the brazen audacity to unfold into an adventure that would furrow brows across all nine districts of our doggish domain.

It was an eye-twitching hour past my routine dream-chasing when I, Micco, a Jack-of-all-trades and master of none (if you don’t count my exceptional talent at devouring chicken or glaring at lemons), was awoken not by the dulcet tones of my sailor-turned-storyteller human, but by a ruckus. A ruckus, mind you, that clamored with the subtlety of a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

Pulling my muscular yet suavely sabled self to an upright position, I decided to embark upon an investigation because in Pawsburgh, a noise is never just a noise—it’s a prelude to pandemonium.

Stepping out into the crisp air of Shiba Inlet, with shadows stretching like long-lost relatives eager for an awkward reunion, I found my four-legged compatriots in an uproar. Kaiser stood statuesque, his posture that of a general, except he was glancing around in that specific way which suggested he’d lost his troops, while Bella danced circles, trilling an opera of concern.

“It’s the meatballs,” groaned Kaiser, a hint of desperation cutting through his authoritative bark. Bella nodded, her ears keeping tempo with her worry.

Now, it’s rarely considered common knowledge, but in our quaint canine commune, Husky’s Hotcakes had a reputation. Not for their pancakes, which were admittedly as fluffy as a freshly groomed Pomeranian, but for their Crimean Thursday Meatball Special—a recipe so tantalizing that one whiff would have you reconsidering the virtues of a vegetarian lifestyle. And from the sound of it, the meatballs had gone missing.

“As the most sophisticated nose in this tri-state area,” I proclaimed, “I shall sniff out the scoundrel that has dared to deprive us of our carnivorous carnival!”

The trail led us from Saluki Sands to Setter Shore, the aroma of savory seasoned spheres taunting us at every turn. Our merry band halted outside Barker’s Bakery, where a new scent mingled with the waves of meatball musk—it was fear, salty and poignant.

“I’ve heard whispers,” whispered Bella, quivering like a bowl of jelly in an earthquake. “Whispers from The Snooty Snout Boutique about a new gang in town… The Furry Felines.”

We exchanged a glance. The Furry Felines—a shadowy syndicate whose claws were rumored to dip into all manner of morsels and mischief. A silence stretched longer than a dachshund in deep contemplation, broken only when I finally growled, “Well, I didn’t choose the dog’s life; the dog’s life chose me.”

We pressed on, our trio fetching courage from the very depths of our dogged hearts, until the plot, much like a ball thrown by an overzealous toddler, thickened.

Nestled behind The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium, there it was. A spectacle so nefarious it would curdle the cream in Miss Whiskers’ bowl: a mountain of meatballs hoarded by the Furry Felines, guarded by a tabby so beefy he could’ve been mistaken for a Corgi.

“What’s the plan, Micco?” Kaiser’s voice was a low rumble, like thunder promising a storm.

With a sly grin spreading across my canine visage, I padded forward. “We negotiate.”

I approached the whiskered warden with a saunter that oozed confidence. “Fancy trading these meatballs for a lifetime supply of catnip and the exclusive rights to all future sunny spots?”

The meatball mountain wobbled as the tabby considered. Seconds ticked by, each one chewier than the chunkiest of dog biscuits.

Deal struck, we departed with our prize, a trifecta of tails wagging in sync. As the sun rose and licked the horizon with apricot-tinted enthusiasm, Pawsburgh remained blissfully oblivious to the night’s hijinks.

Epilogue: Thus, Micco and friends saved the day, leaving but a single mystery untangled—how exactly does one cook meatballs that can instigate a war? That, my dear friends, is a story for another Crimean Thursday.

The End.