Hey there!

Just gave Sherlock a run for his milk-bones in the caper of the missing pal & pancakes. Turned Pawsburg into a scene from a detective novella, but all’s well that ends with maple syrup! Max staged a dramatic surprise that made the town’s tail wag. Let’s say curiosity didn’t get this Chihuahua—it led to adventure and breakfast with friends. 😎🥞🕵️🐾

Bow-Wows and Whisker-Twirls,
Bruno the Sniff-Sleuth

Listen to the story here

It was on an unexceptional morning—that is, as unexceptional as mornings go in Pawsburg—that I found myself trotting down Sapphire Schnauzer Street with my perky ears twitching under the gossamer touch of dawn. The usually bustling lane was strangely empty, save for the hushed whispers of trouble hanging in the air like the scent of unsold meatloaf at a butcher’s convention. It was a day cut out for mystery, and as it happened, I, Bruno, was to be the Chihuahua that bit into its core.

I made my way, with a certain Chihuahua-esque dignity, to Husky’s Hotcakes where I was to meet Max for our customary stack of pancakes. But this was not to be a regular romp of syrup and savory delights. Upon pushing the door with my nose, which is no small feat when one is my size and the door is built for larger breeds, I was greeted with a sight most peculiar: the place was in disarray, and Max was nowhere to be seen.

My inner sleuth perked up, its metaphorical tail, unlike my own slightly crooked one, stood straight with acumen. Speaking of tails, at that moment mine twitched—not out of fear, you understand, but excitement. For you see, not far from a toppled stool lay my beloved blue rubber ball, and beside it, a solitary pancake, cold and abandoned, like the truth in a politico’s promise.

“Ah, a clue!” I yipped to no one in particular, and I wasted no time sniffing around—the scent of Max lingered, mingling with dread and maple syrup. The maple syrup was reassuring; the dread, less so.

I sidestepped a puddle of spilled orange juice—I may be brave, but I’m not a barbarian—and ventured forth. There was but one thing to do: consult Whiskers. If anyone knew the ins and outs of Pawsburg’s secrets, it was she, the feline queen of alleyway whispers.

I rushed back through Sapphire Schnauzer Street, past Samoyed Square, and skidded around the corner to the alley behind Clara’s bakery. Whiskers, feigning indifference as always, sat atop a trash can.

“Whiskers,” I barked, “Max is missing and I—”

She raised a paw to silence me, the admonishment in her eyes more pressing than my yapping. She slinked down, her movements a symphony of feline grace, and sniffed the ball I’d brought along. “The scent of adventure,” she murmured, “and… truffles?”

“The finest nose in Pawsburg,” I complimented her, not merely out of decorum but because it was true, and my own detective’s instincts suggested that her skills were paramount.

“Follow me,” Whiskers commanded, and I did, past The Snooty Snout Boutique and over to Pyrenean Peak, a place Max often rambled about for its views and—presumably—its smells.

As we climbed, the mystery unraveled, the fog of intrigue lifted, and we stumbled upon a sight—I dare say—a sight to make even the most stoic terrier’s hair stand on end. There, by a newly erected statue of Pawsburg’s founder, sat Max, with a look of sheepish guilt usually reserved for dogs caught gnawing on a forbidden slipper.

Max’s jowls drooped as he confessed, “I wanted to surprise everyone with a new landmark. I guess I underestimated the time and… well… no one showed up for breakfast.”

And so, Whiskers and I escorted him back to Husky’s Hotcakes for a late brunch. As the puzzle laid in pieces behind us, and as Pawsburg returned to its peculiar sense of normalcy, I mused that the grandest adventures often started with the smallest of snoops… or Chihuahuas, as the case may be.

The End.