Hey! Missy here, Pawsburgh’s own four-legged sleuth! 🕵️🐾 Just cracked another caper involving a missing amigo, Buddy, and a set of mysterious tracks in Weimaraner Woods. Turned out to be a wild goose chase – well, deer chase to be exact. All’s well that ends with tails wagging. Stay pawsome! 🐕💜🔍 #DetectiveMissy Signing off!

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Ever have one of those days in Pawsburgh where you find yourself in the thick of an enigma that’s got more layers than Barker’s Bakery’s famous seven-tier meat-cake? Sure, you do. You’re looking at one. I’m Missy—remember me?—the furry detective with the curious eyes that Miss Amelia says remind her of toasted almonds, or was it almond toast? Whichever, not important.

So, on a day that would ruffle the fur coat of the most stoic St. Bernard, I stroll into Pom’s Pies, drawn by the aroma of chicken pot pie wafting through the air like an olfactory siren song. I’m here to meet Buddy. He’s late. Not that it’s unusual for a dog whose concept of time is as fluid as the Eskimo Estuary, but he’s got this howl, see—a howl that says ‘I know something’, not just ‘I lost my squeaky toy again’.

A forkful of pie halfway to my mouth, and I see her—Lola, gliding through the door like drama on four paws; a damsel in distress, if distress wore a sleek grey coat and could clock sixty in under five seconds.

“I need your help, Missy,” she says, with earnestness dripping from her jowls. Canines in trouble, a sight I can’t turn a blind eye to unless it’s olives. Ugh, olives. But here’s Lola, looking as if someone had messily rummaged through her hope chest of dreams.

“It’s Buddy,” she claims. My ears twitch. “He’s missing.”

I drop the pie, more dramatically than necessary, but I fancy a little theatrics every now and then. The last I heard, Buddy had dug up some clue about Weimaraner Woods, something about peculiar pawprints and odd howls at midnight. Knowing Buddy, his ‘peculiar’ could be as mundane as ‘I saw a squirrel challenge a raccoon to a dance-off’—it happens more often than you’d think in Pawsburgh.

But, with the expressiveness of an Italian actor in the throes of passion (only far furrier), I assure Lola we’ll find our howling Houdini.

Dusk finds me at Weimaraner Woods, the place is as eerie as a silent bark. Shadows flit like guilty thoughts. I shake off the unease, reminding myself I once survived an entire vacuum cleaner demonstration at Happy Hounds Dog Walking, where I was touted as the ‘before’ example of a tangled mess.

The so-called pawprints are peculiar indeed—less ‘paw’ and more ‘abstract art piece’. I’m pondering this when, out of the thicket like a bat (if a bat was a dog and wheezed when it flew), Buddy emerges.

“Missy!” He’s breathless, incapacitated from his own investigative zeal.

“Buddy, the whole of Pawsburgh’s been up in kibbles about you,” I scold.

“I’ve been here, uncovering the truth about Pawsburgh’s secret!” He’s dramatic, but that’s why we love him.

“And that is?”

He leans in, the scent of doggie detective work heavy upon his breath, “It’s—”

A rustle. We turn, two Sherlock Bones with fur raised and hearts hammering like my metronome-tail on a chase.

A deer, unboxing itself from the foliage, regards us like an audience to its one-deer play. “No secret, just me,” it seems to say.

Buddy’s clue? Just a deer path crossroads. But in Pawsburgh, even a red herring can wear a collar and seem suspicious. We saunter back through the Woods, our tails a testament to a mystery resolved. For now.

Back in Ms. Amelia’s warm den, I lay down penning this tale, knowing in Pawsburgh, the real secret is the simple joy of squeaky toys and savory chicken—no abstract pawprints necessary.

The End.