Hey Ma,

Just cracked another tail-wagger here in Spencerville. Unbarked a heist, sniffed out the infamous Midnight Bone, and ruffed up Daddy Warbucks’ goon squad. Saving the day, one paw at a time. Miss your belly rubs though. I’ve been a good boy, promise!

Sniffs and licks,
Mogli 🐾

Listen to the story here

There I was, in Spencerville, that heaven-sent borough where four-legged souls like me get a second leash on life. But don’t let the fire hydrants made of gold fool ya, Spencerville’s got shadows just like any place for the dearly departed, and I had a case that was murkier than a muddy puddle at Boxer Beach.

I’ve always been a nose for the truth, and that day was no different. A hush had fallen over Doggy Delight as I trotted in, the usual yaps and woofs replaced by worried whines. Marbles, a shifty-eyed Spaniel, sidled up to me with a whisper, “Mogli, the Midnight Bone… it’s gone.”

The Midnight Bone was the thing of legends, a chew toy so pristine it could squeak the Star-Spangled Banner. They said it was chew-proof, drool-proof, even cat-proof. And now, it was gone. Just like that. It was a dark day for Spencerville, darker than a Great Dane’s shadow at sunset.

I slipped into the night, nothing but the glow of the street lamps and the distant bark of a Blues hound at Bark ‘n’ Roll to keep me company. The city glimmered like a wet snout, and the wind smelt like trouble—and a hint of the kibble they served at The Doggy Bagel Deli.

A quartet of Shihtzus, my personal pack of ace sidekicks, had my back. We hit the town, sniffing out clues in the musky underbelly of our perfect dog’s land. TinkerBell Renae, with her coat so white it glared like a spotlight, caught a whiff of something off. “It smells like… chicken and… betrayal,” she growled softly.

I knew that scent. Chicken was common, sure, but betrayal? That hung in the air like bad gas after a hearty meal. We followed our noses, the scent trail leading us past the Howling Husky Hardware Store and right to the doorstep of The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium.

Now, cats and dogs are like politicians and honesty—they don’t mix well. But if there was one feline who dealt in bones, it was Whiskers McGraw, a Tabby with more stripes than a barcode. As we stepped inside, the bell tinged and Whiskers’ green eyes sliced through the dimness like laser pointers on a night hunt.

“Mogli, what brings you to my emporium of elegance?” Whiskers drawled, his voice like sandpaper if sandpaper could purr.

I didn’t beat around the doghouse. “The Midnight Bone. Where is it, Whiskers?”

He just chuckled, “Now, why would I know anything about that, dahling?” His every syllable was drenched in condescension.

I didn’t have time for a cat and mouse game—time was ticking, and that bone wasn’t going to find itself. With some deft persuasion, a couple of behind-the-ear scratches that made him spill the kibble: he’d sold the bone to a shadowy figure who wanted to bring a little… excitement… to Spencerville.

The plot was thicker than double-coated fur. We hit the streets again, Buffy leading the charge with a ferocity that belied her white and brown patches. We prowled through Dalmatian Desert, trekked over Western Husky Hill, and scoured Boxer Beach. The bone was close, I could feel it in my paws.

Finally, there it was, glowing under a spotlight that seemed to come from nowhere, right in the heart of Boxer Beach. But it was a set-up; we ambled right into the cat’s cradle. Goons surrounded us, a mixture of snarling muzzles and sly grins.

The ringleader stepped forward, a Schnauzer with an underbite that could open a can of dog food without a can opener. It was none other than Daddy Warbucks, the canine kingpin of Spencerville’s underworld. “Thought you could out-sniff me, Mogli? That bone’s got a destiny, and it ain’t with you!”

I locked eyes with him, my pack at my sides. I wasn’t about to roll over for some two-bit treat thief. “Well, Daddy-o, your bone’s got a date—with justice!”

And just like that, the ragtag rumble began. Fur flew, tails wagged violently, and barks rang out like alarm clocks at dawn. It was a dog-eat-dog world in a fight for what was right. But I had something Daddy Warbucks didn’t—a pack with loyalty thicker than the juiciest steak.

We emerged victorious, with naught but a few tufts of fur out of place, presenting the Midnight Bone back to its rightful place at Doggy Delight. The crowd yipped with approval, tails wagging in sync like a furry chorus line.

Spencerville might seem like paradise, but even in paradise, a dog’s gotta do what a dog’s gotta do. Me? I’m Mogli, the unofficial guardian of this doggone utopia, just waiting for the day when I can wag my tail for Mommy once more. Until then, I’ll be here, in the lamplight, keeping watch over the best of bones and the worst of bites.

The End.