Hey Mom and Pop,

You won’t believe the day I’ve had. Turned detective in Pawsburg, sniffed out a toy thief, served up some justice, all while channeling a bit of Nora Ephron charm. Pawsburg’s safe once more, thanks to this bulldog’s nose and some furry sidekicks. Don’t worry, the postman’s nemesis stays in paw’s reach tonight.

Tail wags and love,
Bubba 🐾

Listen to the story here

The minute I rolled onto the cobblestones of Amber Akita Alley, a scent struck my nostrils with the subtlety of a freight train. It was the unmistakable whiff of intrigue, seasoned lightly with distress – a blend no bulldog detective worth his slobber could ignore.

“You smell that, Queso?” Buster wagged his stumpy tail, sniffing the air.

“Indeed,” I replied, the gravel in my voice not unlike the pebbly path we ambled upon. “This is no ordinary day in Pawsburg. Trouble’s brewing, and it isn’t in Collie’s Cuisine pots.”

Roxy’s long body wove between my legs, her dachshund nose twitching. “Is it a caper, Ques?” she asked, eyes bright as polished buttons.

Max gave one elegant bark, his greyhound silhouette casting a long shadow as the sun dipped towards Bloodhound Bluffs. “Then we’d best not dawdle,” he chimed in.

The four of us hurried past Terrier Tacos, our pack a flurry of determined fur, heading straight for the heart of the mystery. At The Doggy Depot, we found Mrs. Pekinese, her fluff in a vigorous ruffle. “Queso, thank heavens! My cherished chew toy – the one that looks like a mailman, naturally – it’s gone!”

I grunted sympathetically. My feelings toward the mailman, sentient or plush, were public knowledge. Every morning’s tranquility shattered by that avalanche of envelopes was an affront to my very being.

“We’ll sniff it out,” I assured her. “Won’t we, gang?”

Three barks of accord, and we dispersed, our ears tuned to the hum of Pawsburg’s secrets.

“When did you last see it, Mrs. Pekinese?” I questioned, recalling Nora Ephron’s penchant for the heart of the matter. If I had a typewriter, the clacking would be as comforting as Mrs. Pekinese’s turmoil was unsettling.

“By Pom’s Pies! I was burying my bone; when I returned, it had vanished!”

Aha. Pom’s Pies. An establishment famed for its flakey crusts and the pie-eating contests that left crumbs of evidence in their wake. “Max, Roxy, investigate the pie shop. Buster, patrol Bloodhound Bluffs. I’ll inspect Whippet Way.”

I lumbered down the alleyway, my head slightly askew – the posture of pondering – passing by the Dapper Dog Salon. The postman chew toy was a precious item in Pawsburg, representing the shared disdain of my canine kind for the intrusive daily letter drop.

But then, the wind shifted, carrying with it that distinct concoction of sea aroma and chicken – a clashing combination to any respectable nose.

At The Pampered Pooch Salon, waving their enchanted blow dryers, stood the culprit. A Cavalier King Charles, tres chic and with a chew toy tucked beneath its arm. Our eyes met, an unspoken understanding forming. They, too, were likely a victim of the mailman’s tyranny.

“Look in your heart,” I began, the words rich with Eprhon’s earthly wit. “Is it just to deny another the simple joy that is the subversion of the mailman’s symbolic figure?”

The chew toy changed paws faster than Buster in a rabbit chase.

Mrs. Pekinese’s joy at the return of her toy was effusive, as were the pats and scratches that followed from my pals.

As Pawsburg settled into the lull of evening, mystery solved and justice restored, my thoughts drifted like leaves in the wind – to the rustle of autumn, to secrets, to chicken, gloriously roasted, and, not least of all, to the quiet hope that tomorrow’s post would get lost.

The End.