Hey there! It’s your furry sleuth Abby (a.k.a Shih Tzu Holmes) checking in. Just cracked the Case of the Missing Citrus in Pawsburgh—it was a juicy one, and not because I care for lemons! 🍋 Turns out, it was just a pup’s paw at proving himself, no harm meant. All’s well and tails are wagging again! #PawsburghMysteries 🐾✨ Catch you at the squeaky toy summit! – Abby

Listen to the story here

So there I was, Abby, the Shih Tzu with a tapestry for a coat and a penchant for the peculiar. It was just another day in Pawsburgh, that little diorama of canine utopia nestled somewhere between reality’s snores and the realm of wakeful barks.

Now, most days were like a squeaky toy, full of vibrant noises and amusement; but this one, well, it carried an air so thick with mystery, even Oliver the squirrel paused his acrobatic stunts in the oaks of Terrier Town. The sun had vaulted to its perch with a yawn, and I had trotted to my regal lookout atop the hill, squeaky hedgehog toy in tow—my de facto scepter.

The wind whispered rumors of the curious happenings that had unfolded overnight by the banks of Harrier Harbor, and I, ever the sleuth in spirit, decided it was time to dig into this aromatic storyline. It was an adventure that seemed specially reserved, like my spoon for creamy peanut butter licks, just waiting to be unearthed. I descended, each paw step a declaration of intent, and made for the heart of the mystery.

Upon arriving at Snout Snacks, where the scent of grilled kibble burgers usually filled the air with robust joy, the place was oddly hushed. “Morning, Abby,” greeted Bertie the Beagle, proprietor of the joint, with a nervous wag. “Odd thing today, all citrus shipments gone missing, not a lemon or lime in sight—and you know the robber knew his way around; not a peanut was touched.”

Peering at him with part curiosity and part relief—the absence of that bitter tang was my own little blessing—I gave my affirming bark. “We’ll sniff this out,” I assured him.

I rallied the pack, calling on every snout from the cheeky to the wise. Whiskers was there too, her gait nonchalant, her green eyes scanning for clues with the detached engagement of a cat who’s seen nine lives worth of drama.

We scoured every locale, from the forgotten corners of Onyx Otterhound Oasis to the neat hedges by Canine’s Cuisine. It was in Pawsitively Purrfect Pet Store that I chanced upon the first strand unraveling the enigma—a single citrus peel, laying beneath a rack of collars.

Evening was prying its fingers into the day when I sat across from Happy Hounds Dog Walking’s most nervous Maltese, his eyes darting more than a tennis ball at fetch. “Spikey,” I began with a gentleness like Mrs. Pennington’s touch, “I couldn’t help but notice your newfound collection of citrus-shaped chew toys.”

The confession spilled like kibble from a tipped bowl, and Spikey recounted the tale—a dare from a neighboring dog, a desire to impress, an innocent theft turned town travesty. Remorse was thick in his bark, and I knew this pup was no hardened criminal, just misguided under the full moon’s influence.

The resolution was swift as the townsfolk were forgiving. We returned the stolen goods, Spikey penned his apologies with a paw dipped in peanut butter, and all was well—Pawsburgh could breathe easy once more.

That evening, as I reclaimed my spot on the hill, my hedgehog toy seemed to squeak with a note of pride. The town below doused in golden hues, my ears danced with the wind’s tales—a dog’s life, indeed, was rife with wonder. And as for me, Abby, I was content in the knowledge that beneath the layers of my fur, and the depths of our town’s simple facade, stories woven of intrigue and camaraderie awaited, ready to be told with each wag of a tail.

The End.