Hey Ma,

What a tail-chasing adventure today! Became a detective for a dame, tracking down her stolen ruby collar in the shady tail-twists of Pawsburgh. Turns out your little Chuco’s sniff for trouble is as keen as his taste for roasted chicken. Spoiler alert: Pawsburgh’s good, but I’m barking better. Tails wagging, secrets unraveling – all in a night’s work.

Catch you at the food bowl,
Chupoca 🐾

Listen to the story here

I’ll tell you what, friend, it’s one thing to rebel against the tyranny of baths, but quite another to navigate the clandestine alleys of Pawsburgh after dusk, more so if you’re as pint-sized and as dapper as yours truly, Chucho. There’s one thing they don’t tell you about these streets—they’re rife with tails of deception, darker than the black on my back. So let me regale you with a little caper, just another night for a bourgeois bow-wow like me.

It’d been an evening like any other in Kelpie Keys, with me seeking the comforts of Canine’s Cuisine. I peered through my proverbial blonde glasses – yes, the lens of my lavish intellect – and savored the roasted chicken that quelled my gourmet appetites. But contentment, my dear comrade, is but the silence before the storm.

I trotted past The Pawfect Training Center, unamused, and approached The Wagging Tail Bookstore. It’s where philosophical doggerel meets literary critique, a place to paw through the bound spirits of the past. Or so it was until She sauntered in, tail a-waggin’ and eyes beguiling – Lady, a femme fatale if ever I’d sniffed one.

“Lady,” I panted, “what brings a dame like you to these parts after hours?”

“Just a trifle,” she snickered, sly as a fox terrier. “They say you’re the best when it comes to… finding things.”

The air was thick with more than just the musty scent of old tomes. Danger, as subtle as the hint of Brussels sprouts in a gourmet dish, lingered.

“What’s gone missing, my dear Lady. A bone? A ball? A piece of your heart perhaps?” I quipped, though I sensed the stakes were as high as the top shelf of the ‘Great Danes of Literature’ section.

She leaned in, scent of mystery mingling with my disdain for soap suds. Her voice dropped to a hush. “My ruby collar, Chucho. It’s been snatched.”

A chill raced down my spine as if I’d heard the dreaded bathwater running. Theft was no small matter in Pawsburgh. Scruffy characters lurked in Shiba Inlet, a far cry from the cozy barks heard around Briard Bridge. This wasn’t a mere puppy’s play; this was psychological warfare.

Ears perked, I led Lady through moonlit mirages, pondering the minds of potential collared culprits. Our path took us to Pooch’s Pub, where the savory scent of Dog’s Delicacies could not distract from the task at paw. We interrogated a beagle bartender, a pug poet, even a Labrador lawyer. All bark and no bite.

Hours whisked away like fur in the wind until we found ourselves facing the Groom Room, the heart of all Pawsburgh’s vanity and secrets.

“Do you trust me, Chucho?” Lady’s voice was steady, but it carried the tremor of hidden truths.

“Trust is a floating stick, my dear. It comes and goes with the waves,” I replied. Yet, I plunged ahead, determined to unravel this tangled leash of deceit.

And there it was, our breakthrough clue – a glinting ruby strand, caught in a brush.

“So, who could it be, Chucho? Who in Pawsburgh would dare?” Lady murmured, voice a blend of fear and thrill.

“The who doesn’t startle me; it’s the why that bites,” I retorted. We eyed each other, knowing the underbelly of Pawsburgh was a beast of its own, its psyche an enigmatic dark forest.

But alas, I’ve chewed through enough words here. As for the collar’s thief, isn’t anticipation the most delectable of meals? Let’s just say that in Pawsburgh, even the squeaky-clean hides dirt under the collar. As for me, I live to wag my tail another day, a puzzle-loving pup pawing through the city’s psyche, story by story.

The End.