Hey Mom, wild day as Pawsburgh’s local Sherlock Bones—unraveled a howling mystery at Doberman Dunes, where ghostly glows turned out to be our own happy yaps lighting up the night! Paws for thought, right? 🐾 I’m more than just a fluffy face here; I’m a detective with a nose for the extraordinary (and a bit of a philosopher too). Gotta run, the adventure never paws-es in this town. Tail wags from your son, Bon Bon 🕵️‍♂️🦴

Listen to the story here

You would not believe the day I’ve had. You see, in Pawsburgh, where the sun dapples the pavements like a playful pup chasing a ball, things are usually cheerful, the kind of place where fire hydrants come in all flavors and lampposts are for singing, not just sniffing. Ah, but we’re a town of wistful woofs and tail-waggers, we dogs—at least, when we’re not embroiled in an X-File, tail-deep in the inexplicable.

It all began on an ordinary day, if any day spent in Pawsburgh could ever be termed such. I was lounging at Pom’s Pies, nibbling on a slice of steak and kidney pie that would make humans weep with envy, when the air grew thick with mystery. The whispers started at a whimper and grew to a collective howl: something strange was a-paw at Doberman Dunes. It was whispered (for who can manage discretion with such snouts designed for baying) that phantasmic lights flickered over the sands when the moon was shy behind the clouds.

So, I took it upon my shaggy shoulders to investigate. ‘Bonnie,’ said I to myself, ‘you’re a Bernese mountaineer by blood—at least, you would be if the closest you’ve gotten to a mountain wasn’t the molehill in Mrs. Poodle’s yard. Thus, investigation is in your nature.’

And investigate I did. I corralled Miss Whiskers from her sunbeam—a comfort wrested from her with less enthusiasm than expected—and together we trotted towards the Dunes. A light fluttered like the last beat of a firefly’s heart, yet there was nothing to explain its source.

“That looks like the work of the infamous Groomer,” Miss Whiskers said with catlike brevity.

“The Groomer?” I echoed. “Who’s ever heard of a groomer working in such incognitos? Why, our town’s coiffeurs are as flashy as whippet in a windstorm!”

Upon Bloodhound Bluffs, we met Rupert, the local Beagle detective. He had an olfactory prowess that could sniff out the faintest eau de rodent on the wind, yet even his snout was perplexed.

“My dear Bonnie,” Rupert began, adjusting his monocle—the very image of sagacity—”this phenomenon is as odd as a Pekingese piloting a plane. You see, the lights are not just lights; they have no scent!”

“Odorless lights? Now that’s a tail-twister,” Miss Whiskers quipped, her tail snapping like a whip behind her.

We set our paws to the sands of Doberman Dunes, and lo, the lights danced before us. A semaphore in luminescence, they had no tangible form, yet they beckoned with spectral fingers.

It was then that I remembered a vital detail. I darted back to The Barking Boutique, where my rope toy lay forgotten. I returned posthaste, for within the toy’s frayed fibers were the chronicled hours of sunbeams and explorations, a veritable tapestry of knowledge woven by play.

“Speak to me, old friend,” I whispered to it.

And it did.

Beneath the moon’s sheepish gaze, the rope toy unraveled the riddle. The lights were not from Pawsburgh; they were echoes of our barks and laughs—a canine aurora borne from the exuberance of Pawsburgh’s residents. A manifestation of our own cheer!

With a collective cheer and a bit of embarrassment, we celebrated our discovery. Who knew our joy could illuminate the night?

The End.