Hey human,

Pawsburgh’s midnight mystery – solved! This Jack Russell detective sniffed out the silent squeaky toy under the bulldog’s watchful eye. Every shadowy figure and whispering tail was a clue on my path. Just call me the Sherlock Bones of our whimsical town. Never fear, Little Buddy’s here to keep the furry peace, one lost toy at a time.

Tails up!
Little Buddy 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

The morning mist clung to the cobblestone streets of Pawsburgh like the faint scent of mystery in a detective’s office. I’m Little Buddy, and this town, with its whimsical shops and fire hydrant fountains, becomes a different beast under the cloak of night – a place where shadows whisper and tails tuck.

Jack Russell Terriers like me, we’re known for our spirit. But in the noir shroud of the early hours, even my bright white coat seemed to absorb the darkness. My paws padded softly on the damp ground. From Garnet Greyhound Grove to Weimaraner Woods, I was on the case – the case of the missing prized squeaky toy.

I trotted past The Canine Cafe, where the aroma of black coffee and bacon had a habit of knotting the minds of the town’s sleuths more effectively than any leash could. By dawn, The Groom Room would be teeming with clients, but for now, it stood silent, the stillness hanging as heavy as the anticipation of a bolt tightening.

“Hey, paw-tner,” I muttered, catching a glimpse of my reflection in a puddle. My personality was a question mark curled up at the end of a tail; I found myself a creature of optimism shadowed by mischief. And Vonnegut might say that was alright, that we are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be. I pretended to be unafraid.

I shook off the chill and trotted towards Terrier Town. It was here, beneath the flickering light of an old street lamp, that the tip had come in. Mutt Murphy, a streetwise Bloodhound with a nose that had seen more secrets than most, had whispered of strange goings-on by Sniffer’s Sandwiches. No Pawsburgh pooch could resist a late-night delve into the deli’s dumpster – except me, Little Buddy, with my unknown predilection for finer fare.

The night’s cloak parted like drapes to a stage as I scoped Sniffer’s. That’s when I saw him – a tough Bulldog with a chewed cigar hanging like a promise from his jowls, his shadow sluicing across the pavement. He was the muscle of Pawsburgh, making sure the midnight alliance of dumpster divers kept to the unspoken code.

I’m more for the run than the wrestle. The fur on my nape bristled, but I had to brave the bulldog’s glare to find my clue. My favorite toys, characters of countless adventures, whispered comforts as I edged closer, my heart hammering.

“Well, if it isn’t Little Buddy,” the bulldog growled, smoke wreathing his head in a dubious halo. “Lookin’ for something?”

“I might be,” I admitted, my voice slicker than a wet tennis ball. “A squeaker’s gone silent in the night. It’s got a tale to tell, and I’m here to hark it.”

He chuffed, a soft sound escaping – a gruff chuckle or a growl, one couldn’t be sure. “It’s a dark road, runt. Lot of paws been diggin’ where they shouldn’t.”

“Only interested in one,” I said, padding closer.

Then it happened. A glint in the rubbish, more profound than any wise Pawsburgh tale or Vonnegut yarn. I snatched it quick as a whimper – the squeaky toy, famed and fabled, finally found.

As I dashed back through the groves, the woods, and into the arms of dawn, the tale was already unspooling in my mind; a story to tell my human, a caper to recount with glee. Because in Pawsburgh, even when the world is shades of grey, there’s always a splash of color waiting at the end of the chase. And it’s this Jack Russell’s job to sniff it out.

The End.