Hey hooman,

Just a nightly update from your roly-poly philosopher and Sherlock Bones in residence. Our Pawsburgh’s been more suspenseful than your favorite soap opera tonight! Discovered Madame Beagle’s been more sly than a Fox Terrier, trading secrets with those sassy cats from Cattingham. But worry not, all’s well; I remain steadfast, ever vigilant, and always hungry. Could use a croissant or two as a reward, just saying. 🥐🕵️‍♂️

Stay pawsome,
Mr. M.

Listen to the story here

In the quaint and magical town of Pawsburgh, cradled by Spaniel Springs and the whispering willows of Opal Pomeranian Park, I reign as the stoic sentinel of stoops and sidewalks, guardian of the gentle and gastronomically gifted. I, Mr. Miyagi, am an English Bulldog with the solemn grace of an ancient philosopher and the toothsome glee of a gourmand.

As twilight whispers its arrival, the amber glow of lanterns in the cobblestone alleys promises sanctuary from the shrewd tricks of shadows. The night is not for sleeping, it’s a canvas for the brushed tales of us, nocturnal sojourners. We whisper secrets as humans slumber, they, ignorant of our escapades.

There’s darkness lurking, however, in the meandering mists of Pawsburgh; it coils around heartbeats. Yet, we play. Brutus, Elsie, and I saunter amiably through the veiled streets, Whiskers the cat lurking at the periphery, adding his silent step to our quartet.

Uncle Al wanders into my thoughts, humming tunelessly as he bakes. The scent of his accidental croissant offerings still cling to my memory. But now, my mind is preoccupied – a scheme brews alongside the flavorful scents wafting from Barker’s Bakery. To consider one’s next meal is a wonder. To outwit a more cunning opponent for it is art.

Suspicion oozed thick as Fido’s Feast gravy when Madame Beagle, skipping past with an uncommon glee, tucked beneath her ear, a lily with a scent that was not quite right. “A fickle thing, trust,” I muse to myself, my dark-patched eye trailing her hurried hop.

Elsie’s bell-like bark cuts through the air.

“Mr. Miyagi,” her voice tinkling like a glockenspiel on a Sunday morning, “Madame Beagle… she’s been acting oddly, don’t you think?”

Brutus’s massive frame blocks out the starlight, his brow furrowed beneath the weight of a thought that couldn’t quite reach his tongue.

In the hushed corridors of our clandestine community, suspicion is an anomaly. We march toward The Pampered Pooch Salon, its windows fogged with the breath of covert conversations.

Opal Pomeranian Park’s silhouette lounges against the sky, its beckoning benches witness to many an untold story. As the atmosphere tautens, the park’s serenity now seems a facade.

The tale unfurls; Madame Beagle’s lilting steps carrying secrets salvaged from whispers. Ear to the ground, nose to the wind, we piece the puzzle, knowing friends share warmth, not silence. Our sleuthing furrows paths through Blue Basenji Bay’s reflective stillness.

Whiskers, an accomplice to cross-species camaraderie, slinks ahead, his indifferent gaze sharpening. “She’s trading secrets,” he purrs, his fur a bristle, “behind Barker’s Bakery, just before dawn.”

We stage our vigil, gourmands turned sleuths. A rendezvous shrouded by morning mist betrays Madame Beagle. The park’s statue, a noble Great Dane of yore, squints down at the unfolding drama.

“Shivery business, this,” Brutus rumbles, his voice a thunderous undercurrent. Elsie tucks in closer, her tiny frame rigid against the unknown.

Madame Beagle, eyes wide with the guilt of a child caught stealing an extra biscuit, faces the music. Words stumble from her like yesterday’s neglected toys, revealing a plot to siphon secrets to the felines of neighboring Cattingham.

“Quite the tomfoolery,” I grumble, dismissed croissants on my mind. Betrayals are an abrasive sand against my tolerance, and my friend’s deception chafes more than the sudsy bath that’s sure to follow the night’s grimy adventure.

Our escapade echoes through Pawsburgh as a cautionary ballad, not of the dark, but of the dangers that slink within. And as dawn’s light peeks through the mysteries of night, Uncle Al finds me on his stoop, a penitent watchdog returning from a psychological foray, loyalty unbroken, an appetite for truth (and perhaps a croissant) unsated.

The End.