Hey, just finished my nightly patrol in Pawsburgh – uncovered a chew toy theft, exposed Clawed the cat as a mole, and restored order amongst the four-legged folk. Details later, but let’s just say this fur-covered detective earned his chicken treats tonight. 🐾 – Prince the Paw-some Private Eye

Listen to the story here

There I was, Prince by name and by nature, padding down the glistening cobblestones of Bichon Boulevard, my favorite squeaky plush squirrel stashed securely in my bed back home. It was one of those evenings where the lamp posts hummed a somber melody, a perfect backdrop for a tail of Pawsburgh’s underbelly, if you catch my drift.

This wasn’t my usual sunset jaunt through Maple Park. Tonight’s agenda was the meat of a butcher shop mystery, the sort that had the fur on your back bristle with intrigue. My chum, Bruce, had whispers about a heist down at The Doggy Depot and he needed a set of sharp eyes. That’s where yours truly stepped in.

I strutted into the Doggone Deli, scanning the joint with coffee-bean eyes that missed no trick. Neither did my nose. I leapt onto a stool at the counter—it took a couple of tries. Don’t laugh; remember: regal. Stella, the Dalmatian behind the bar with spots like ink splatters on a detective’s blotter, eyed me up. “The usual, Your Highness?”

I shook my head with a solemnity that was all business. “Just a bowl of water, Stella. I’m here on official snooping.”

In slinked Bella, her beagle-ears flopping. With a howl soft as silk, she joined me at the bar. “News travels fast. Bruce told you, huh?”

I nodded. “A caper at the Doggy Depot. Any leads?”

Before she could reply, Whiskers zipped through the door like a hare in a hurry. His snout was twitching, the tail a blur. “The hoomans’ stash,” he gasped. “It’s been nabbed. All the prime chew toys, gone.”

We exchanged looks; this was no two-bit theft. It was the big leagues—the sort where the treat bags crinkled with secrets and squeakers went silent.

We huddled up by Woof and Whisker Wellness Center, a front for our nocturnal deliberations. The place smelled of essential lavender and therapy, but tonight, it was our war room. “We have a mole,” I whispered. Someone was feeding info to the cat burglars, and I’d bet my chicken treats it wasn’t Bruce, Bella, or Whiskers.

The plot thickened like the gravy on last week’s kibble. We made our way through Vizsla Valley and towards Doberman Dunes—the notorious meeting spot for all of Pawsburgh’s shadier characters. There, under the moon’s suspicious gaze, we saw them: canine silhouettes, shuffling about near Pup’s Parfait.

“We go in quiet,” I instructed, my tiny paws leaving clandestine prints in the sand. My heart kicked like a trapped rabbit, but this Chihuahua wasn’t one to roll over for a belly rub with danger at the door.

Confronting the shapes, the darkness shed its cloak. Sure enough, it was members of the Feral Feline League, their paws dirtier than a pup’s after a rain-soaked dig. And with them, the mole. I could hardly believe my twitching ears: it was Clawed, the cat from Pet Partners Pet Supplies. He was deep in cahoots, selling out his own establishment for a slice of the purloined plush.

“Clawed!” I barked, my tail stiff as a letter opener. “You’ve been playing us for fools!”

The cat’s ears went back, his eyes narrowed slits. “What can I say, Prince? Business is business.” He was as cool as a cucumber I would refuse to eat on principle.

Bella let out a howl that stirred the night’s soul; Whiskers’s legs became blurs as he readied; and Bruce… well, Bruce just growled, which was enough to send chills down your spine like ice in a glass.

I took a step forward, regal and ready. “You’ve forgotten the first rule of Pawsburgh, Clawed: You mess with one of us, you mess with the pack.”

The standoff was brief—cats detest water and Bruce knocked over a barrel. Claws and pride were tested that night, but when the sun peeked over Doberman Dunes, justice was restored. The toys returned to their rightful owners, and the mole, well, let’s just say, his nine lives in Pawsburgh were spent.

Back at the Deli, I was hailed a hero, my tale to be recounted in hushed, awed barks. As I lay my head down later and drew my prized plush squirrel close, I knew I had defended the honor of dogs everywhere. But that’s just another night in Pawsburgh for you, a knight in a fur coat, fighting the good fight. And as for those savory chicken treats? You bet I earned them.

The End.