Hey there, it’s Nola Girl, the sleuth with the smooth snoot! Cracked the Case of the Missing Collar today. Lady P’s precious was hiding under her cushion—turns out, Pawsburgh’s biggest mysteries are best solved with a keen nose and a dash of patience. All’s well that ends with snacks and squeaky toys. Over and out! 🕵️‍♀️🐾✨

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If you’d ever set a paw in Pawsburgh after sunset, when humans deem the world ought to be asleep, you’d have crossed paths with the likes of yours truly, Nola Girl, detective extraordinaire of this doggone delightful town. And if your ears were as tuned as a hound’s to the ground, you’d have overheard whispers of my latest escapade, a caper that scented more puzzling than a fresh loaf from Madeline’s oven without the warmth.

‘Twas a day that began under the old oak in Whisker’s Field, my compatriots Marmaduke and Bella in tow. We lounged in that hazy crossroad where shadow and sun do a dainty dance, till a ruckus most unseemly rolled out of Ruby Rottweiler Ridge. Pray, what dog worth their salt could turn a deaf ear to such commotion?

Slinking through Weimaraner Woods, with trails as twisty as a river whose mind’s all a muddle, we came upon a scene that would ruffle even the fluffiest of tails. Lady Penelope, a poodle of high pedigree and even higher opinions, found her jeweled collar usurped—vanished in the night like a ghost gone shy.

Now, I ain’t one to chase my own tail in circles, for wisdom lies not in braun but in brains, and in Pawsburgh, mine’s as sharp as a tack. So, I set my snout to sniff, my eyes to scout, for clues ’round the town’s haunts and well-trodden paths.

First to the Doggone Deli, where the mustard never cuts the mustard, askin’ Lou, the squint-eyed bulldog of few words and fewer movements, if some dastardly soul had slinked by his counter. “A drifter keen on chicken, aye,” he rumbled, eyes glinting with merriment, “but no fiend with a collar glintin’ like sunrise.”

Next stop, The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium, a place contrary by name yet frequented by the canine elite. Madame Fifi, Persian purveyor of fine goods, arched a brow at my inquiry. “Darling,” she meowed with a purr smooth as silk, “even I know baubles are better ’round necks than locked in vaults.”

The trail, it seemed, was colder than a well-digger’s boots in January. But even as the daylight waned, my spirits stayed higher than the Hound Heights themselves.

My breakthrough sauntered in, casual like, at the Dapper Dog Salon—a gab between gossiping groomers about a curious find in the corner of a crate—a hint of glittering vanity.

Tail a-wagging, I hastened back to Lady Penelope’s abode in time to see her fuss over her unruly mane. But lo, what’s this? The riddle lay not in theft but in accident! A quiet word with her trusted terrier, who boasted of his fluff-taming prowess and closer inspection revealed the precious adornment tucked beneath a cushion, playing the greatest game of hide and seek that Pawsburgh ever did see.

Lady Penelope, her pride as intact as her collar, praised my cunning, said it was keener than the chef’s knife at Paw Pad Thai. Marmaduke nodded, his face a portrait of utter non-surprise. Bella’s howls of delight echoed under the moon, sure as the tides.

So with carrots to munch and a rubber chicken to guard, I watched over Pawsburgh, the town as quiet as a secret, and I pondered the old truth, that sometimes what you seek’s right under your snoot, if only you’ve the nose to find it.

The End.