Hey Scout,

Just wrapped up a grand adventure in Pawsburg! Our Red Ball went MIA, and as the top dog, it was up to me, Conan the Curious, to sniff out the truth. Turns out, it wasn’t purloined but simply nestled at the base of a mischievous orange tree. Ball’s back and Pawsburg’s peace is restored, all before dinner. 🐾

Conan the Ball Finder

Listen to the story here

Ah, where to begin with such a caper as unfolded in Pawsburg that afternoon? ‘Twas a day like any other, when the leaves rustled in their anarchy and the scents of life filled the air, but history, they say, is shaped by days such as this.

I remember trotting through Vizsla Valley, my senses sharp, the sullen weight of city melancholy shrugged off like last night’s snowfall. Oliver had been by earlier, eager and electrifying the tranquility with his talk of disappearing holes, which apparently had no business being as vacant as my food bowl on a fasting day. My tail muttered approval, swishing left to right, seemingly with a mind of its own.

Had I known what awaited at Spaniel Springs, I might have hastened my steps. Upon arrival, a hush had fallen over the meadow, and it struck me as unnatural—more so than a cat at a kennel club. Bailey stood as a sentry, his golden coat dulled with concern, and around him circled a gathering of solemn faces. Where jovial bark and whimper should reign, there was now only the sound of unease whispering through the grass.

“What’s all this about then?” I boomed, my voice a thunderclap in the ominous quiet.

Bailey’s eyes met mine; in them, I read volumes more than any heroic tale of Alpine rescue in my bloodline. “It’s gone, Conan,” he lamented with a gravity that could make a statue weep. “The Red Ball.”

The collective gasp was palpable as if a vacuum had sucked the joy out of Pawsburg momentarily. My Red Ball—the heart of so many chases and the soul of our adventures—had vanished into the unknown.

Instinctively, my eyes darted to the remnants of the crowd, each one displaying their disbelief and confusion like an ill-fitted collar. There was no time for lollygagging or ponderous sighs. The chase, as they say, was afoot.

I set off, each paw placed with purpose, first to Paw-lickin’ Pancakes. After all, any ordeal was no reason to conduct an inquiry on an empty stomach—a sentiment Kingsley would have shared. A whiff of syrupy bliss and the crunch of a carrot later, I was back, following the scents and sights that only a dog could discern.

The paths led to Onyx Otterhound Oasis, past the shops of indulgence—The Woofy Bakery puffing out perfumed bread, The Barking Boutique where vanity framed every window. And then, a clue caught my discerning eye—jubilant scents of Puppy Patisserie mixed with an aroma that struck dissonance. Citrus. The smell that cast shadows on my fondness for flavors.

My hefty Saint Bernard girth moved with a surprising spryness as I pursued the scent towards Onyx Otterhound Oasis. And there, betwixt a gathering of hollyhocks and meandering brook, lay the smudged truths of our narrative. A trail of lemons leading inward like lanterns along a path to Hades.

Without hesitation, my paws unfurled the tale, each step bringing me closer to The Red Ball, my sanguine companion through escapades of all species. It wasn’t the lemons that had snatched my beloved plaything but a misadventure—an orange tree, planting a confounding citrus scent hitherto not encountered in our verdant haven.

Resting at the foot of the tree, as if perched by an agent of mischief, lay my Red Ball. Undamaged, unclaimed but most importantly unforgotten, and so, I rescued my companion as my ancestors did for travelers in the swirling snows of the Alps.

The denouement, as I later recounted to my friends at Puppy Patisserie over treats and trifles, was as anticlimactic as it was satisfying. A mystery unraveled not by claws but by the pure breed of curiosity and canine resolve, all in the heart of Pawsburg, where only dogs may lay their secrets bare. And so, we rolled ever onward, audacious under the sun’s watchful eye—yours truly, Conan, a Saint Bernard of some repute.

The End.