Hey buddy, Walee here—I’m the underdog turned detective in Pawsburg’s tail of the Great Squeaker Snatch. I sniffed out the mystery, stood paw to paw with friends and foes alike, and when things got ruff, I showed this city that loyalty never goes out of style. Now, with the night as my witness, I’m on the trail to fetch justice for my pack. Stay tuned for the bark of my next adventure! 🐾 #NoirPaws
-Wooflock Holmes

Listen to the story here

It was one of those evenings in Pawsburg when the setting sun bathed the cobblestones of Hound Heights in liquid gold, and the whispers of the Weimaraner Woods rustled tales of destined encounters. I had that itch behind my ear, the kind that tickled my instincts, told me trouble was coming and it was wearing a collar.

Somewhere between the hum of the Canine Cafe and the bark of a lonely mongrel, the air carried a scent that made the hairs on my back stand at attention. It smelled like duplicity with a hint of desperation. Tink had whispered to me, her words rushed and her eyes darting, about a heist. Not just any heist, but the kind that would set the tail of every dog in Pawsburg wagging for years – the Great Squeaker Snatch from The Pawfect Training Center.

She said, “Walee, you’re loyal, sure, but you’ve got a nose for sniffing out the ruff stuff. We need you.” And before I could roll over twice, I was in.

Now as I sat in the shaded booth at Pawprint Pizzeria, nursing a bowl of water that was, let’s just say, a paws-width below room temperature, the door creaked, and in waltzed Duchess, her tail high, her stride confident—as if the cobblestone was her red carpet.

“Walee, darling,” she purred, which for the record, I’ll never understand why she purrs—she’s from across the street, not across the species line. “You’ve got that look again, the one where you’re two steps away from chasing your tail into a misadventure.”

“Duchess, stick to your sun-spots, this dog’s got a bone to pick with someone,” I retorted, my tone aloof but my heart grateful for the company. She knew, though. Everyone knew Walee didn’t wag his tail for a lost cause.

The sun dipped, and shadows stretched like lazy felines across the walls of Terrier Tacos, cloaking the streets in secrecy. It was showtime—a paws and order operation. The plan was dog-simple: swipe the prized squeakers amidst the chaos that Bentley, bless his bark, would create with his notorious “cat chase” routine. A distraction most foul in a town governed by canines, but effective.

As the commotion began, my pulse was the rhythm of a tap-dance. The Groom Room’s lights flickered, a signal from Tink. My paws carried me, fast and sure, behind The Pampered Pooch Salon, where the goods were stashed.

But as I nosed open the back door, the light flickered out, squares of moonlight my only witness. The squeakers were gone, vanished, and in their place, a single, well-gnawed, slightly deflated soccer ball that reeked of betrayal and citrus—the sour scent of a set-up.

“Looks like you’re barking up the wrong tree,” a voice growled from the dark.

Bentley.

He padded out, tail low, guilt in his eyes. “Sorry, Walee, they had Tink—”

I didn’t need to hear more. I raced back into the maw of Pawsburg, my heart thundering, my spirit undeterred. Because in this noir world of canine capers, it’s not about the chase or the catch; it’s about loyalty, about the friends you sniff out in the dark, and about the tales that are told with a wag and a whisper.

And as the night lapped at the edges of adventure and the stars blinked sleepily above, I, Walee, knew that this was one mystery I’d relish unraveling. With my tail a banner of unfurled determination, I slipped into the night’s embrace, ready to right the wrongs in the only town where every dog has its day—Pawsburg.

The End.

Share This Story: