Hey Ma,

Just cracked another case in Pawsburgh. Turns out Millie’s treasured tennis ball wasn’t stolen – just buried in her own backyard. All in a day’s work for your son, the dogged detective. These paws uphold the law, one buried treasure at a time! 😎🐾

Keep your tail wagging,
Topo Gigio

Listen to the story here

I’ll confess, Pawsburgh isn’t your run-of-the-mill, tail-wagging metropolis. It’s a town peppered with intrigue and canine capers, and I, Topo Gigio, am the four-pawed private eye often sniffing out its most confounding puzzles.

I remember it was the twilight stroke of dawn when I first heard the scratching at my door. As I roused from a dream that involved an unusually animated game of fetch with a frisbee that refused to be caught, I padded over to the entrance of my modest but comfortable kennel. Moonlight illuminated a short figure on Bichon Boulevard, the street that flickers like a candle in the somnolent haze of coming sunrise.

“Topo Gigio,” a hushed voice wafted through my door, “we need you.”

It was Huck, his round little beagle eyes wider than the rims of the most colossal water bowls in Mastiff Meadows.

“We’ve got a mystery at Saluki Sands,” he whispered hurriedly, “and it’s got Millie more knotted than a chew toy in a terrier’s jaws.”

Ah, Millie – the sweet mastiff who could spot a squirrel from a block away with her keen eyes, and whose tail thumps could be heard clear over in Mutt Munchies when she laughed. Undoubtedly, this case was serious.

As I hit the cobblestones of Pawsburgh, Huck filled me in. Millie’s most cherished possession, a fading tennis ball owned since her pup days, had vanished. Just poof—like a treat in the snap of jaws. But where does one begin in a town where every tail’s a suspect and every snout’s a potential accomplice? Perhaps the local hubs of hound-dog hangouts, where whispers flit like wayward butterflies in the dog park.

First, we trotted over to Spaniel Spaghetti. The scent of meatballs was so enticing, I knew I’d need an iron restraint or I’d be wolfing down clues instead of sniffing them out.

“Seen anything peculiar?” I asked the chef, a poodle with a penchant for al dente pasta.

“Only that Chihuahua ending his hunger strike,” he barked back.

A dead end. Not surprising.

Next up, The Wagging Tail Bookstore. Intelligence trickles through those aisles like drool from a teething pup. The retriever behind the counter, always nose-deep in adventure novels, offered a morsel of insight with a shrug of indifference.

“Millie’s ball, huh? Might wanna check The Pooch Playhouse. Dogs leave more than drool on those floors.”

The Pooch Playhouse. Of course. Huck and I made our way to the realm of toys and trinkets, but the ball was not among the usual chaos of rope toys and squeakers. It was cleaner than a Dalmatian’s conscience.

Hours rolled by like loose balls on a slope; my tail sagged with the weight of the unsolved quandary. We arrived at Millie’s abode in Mastiff Meadows with heavy hearts, ready to admit defeat. But then, something glistened in the soil of her backyard. I dug with the zeal of a terrier on a bone quest. Lo and behold, the lost treasure re-emerged from the earth, caked in dirt, yet glowing with the light of a thousand fireflies.

It seemed the riddle was simpler than an open gate –Millie’s notorious digging had hidden the ball from even her own memory. Huck laughed, a baritone bellow that echoed down the quiet streets.

As the sun crested the sky, I pondered over a bowl of savory chicken from Chowhound’s Chophouse, tasting the sweet victory of a mystery resolved. In Pawsburgh, every case has its day, and once again, my cleverness served as the leash guiding us to answers untangled, much like the wayward frisbee of my dreams.

The End.