Hey, it’s your top dog, Frost. Just cracked another caper – retrieved the squeaky crown of Pawsburg. All in a day’s work for this Huskador sleuth. The town’s tails are wagging, and my nap’s calling. Till the next sniff, stay frosty! 🐾✨ – Frost

Listen to the story here

Well, ain’t that something? Frost is my name, and sniffing out adventures is my game. Now sit on your haunches and listen to a little yarn about a curious happening that took place on a day when the sun hung in the Pawsburg sky like a glowing copper penny.

It was a day much like any other when my paws carried me down to Setter Shore, a place where the waves whispered secrets and the sand was as warm as sun-soaked velvet. My good friend Benny the Beagle had sent for me with a message as urgent as a cat on a hot tin roof. As I approached, Benny’s nose was buried in the sand so deep, I feared he might flip clear over.

“Frost, thank the stars you’re here,” he said, his voice muffled by sand and seriousness. “Pawsburg’s in a pickle, and it’s a kosher dill. The treasure of Ruby Rottweiler Ridge has up and vanished!”

Now, this treasure wasn’t your ordinary bone buried ‘neath a rose bush. No, sir. This was a squeaky toy of legend, shaped like a crown and adorned with faux rubies fit for canine royalty. It was sought after by every paw and claw in Pawsburg. It offered no scent, they said, which made it nigh impossible for a dog to find, unless you had a Huskador’s sniffer, of course.

The grapevine told tales of the toy resting at The Pampered Pooch Salon, a place for high-falutin’ snouts. I made my way there, my tail creating ripples in the air, with thoughts twisty as a corkscrew. In that pink-walled haven of grooming, the trail began, and Mrs. Doodles, the poodle proprietress, greeted me.

“Frost, to what do I owe the pleasure? Here for a trim?” she asked, her voice tinkling like Ellie’s wind chime laughter.

“Not today, Mrs. Doodles. I’m here on the hunt for a missing toy,” I said, glancing around at the perfumed pups under dryers and newfangled machines.

Her eyes, big as saucers, darted around. “Well, I haven’t seen any such thing,” she declared, but her trembling whiskers told a different tale.

From The Pampered Pooch, my quest took me across town faster than you could say ‘woof’, to Happy Hounds Dog Walking. There was Simon, the shifty-eyed Schnauzer, a known knickknack nabber if ever there was one.

“C’mon Simon, out with it. Have you seen a squeaky toy fit for a king?” I prodded. He sat back, chewing on a chicken strip he’d pilfered from Dog’s Delicacies.

“Oh, Frost, I see many toys; none so royal, I’m afraid,” he said, with a wink and a nudge that told me his heart was as crooked as a dog’s hind leg.

Putting my nose to the ground, I followed a faint, rubbery scent that led to Setter’s Steakhouse. There, I found Brutus, a burly Mastiff, his paws around a suspicious object.

“Brutus, what have you got there? Show me. Now,” I commanded with the authority of a Huskador used to getting his way.

Slowly, with a chagrin that could fill a lake, he presented the toy. “I just wanted to be king for a day,” he sighed, his jowls sagging.

“Brutus, a king doesn’t make himself one by sneaking off with treasures that aren’t rightly his,” I said. “But you can be a noble beast by giving it back.”

And so the treasure was returned, and the mystery of Ruby Rottweiler Ridge was solved. The town dogs cheered, the cats purred indifferently, and Benny nodded, saying, “Good job, Frost. Pawsburg can always count on you to sniff out the truth.”

As for me, with the adventure wrapped up tighter than a spool of thread, I returned home just in time for Ellie’s return – her embrace as warm as the Pawsburgh sun. “Oh Frost,” she chuckled, “I can tell by that gleam in your eye you’ve been up to something.”

And like the rolling shoreline that meets the sea, another tale of Frost’s adventures came to a sweet close, ready to be spun another day.

The End.