Hey Mom & Dad,

Just wrapped another thrilling day at Pet Nine-Nine. Cracked the case of the purloined pooch collars—turned out to be all bark and no bite! Spencerville’s safe and sound, thanks to my nose (and wit) and Brutus’ tiny but mighty heart. Gonna hit the hay now, belly full, tail happy, all in a day’s work for your Big Bubba no trouble.

Dream of bacon strips,
Bubba 🐾🕵️‍♂️🦴

Listen to the story here

The day started as any other in Spencerville, with the sun casting warm golden rays over the serene streets and the scent of bacon wafting from the various eateries. I, Bubba, a Boxer Hound mix of considerable charm and intelligence, had just strutted my way into the precinct of Pet Nine-Nine, tail wagging in rhythmic anticipation of the day’s adventures.

“Morning, Bubba,” greeted Sergeant Fluffles, a Persian cat with an attitude as fluffy as her coat. She perched atop a stack of paperwork, surveying the office with a disdain that only cats could master.

“Good day, Sarge. Anything on the docket that requires a nose of my particular talents?” I inquired, my own snout pointing skyward with no small amount of pride.

Before Fluffles could retort with her usual cattiness, the station buzzed with commotion. Officer Paws, a plucky Beagle with an obsession for detail, rushed in with news hot enough to make the fire hydrants sweat.

“Bubba, there’s been a heist at ‘Canine Couture Clothing’! Someone’s made off with the new line of diamante-studded collars!” Paws barked out the news, ears flopping with the weight of such scandal.

As the most seasoned (and let’s be honest, handsomest) detective, I knew it was my duty to sniff out the culprit. With a confident stride and my trusty toy tightly gripped in my jaw – the symbol of my playful yet professional approach to crime-solving – I turned to my partner, Brutus.

“Ready, little bro?” I woofed at the chihuahua, who, despite his tiny frame, stood with resolve that would shame the largest of Great Danes.

“Born ready, Bub!” Brutus yapped back, and we were off, a dynamic duo against the world of crime.

Our investigation led us to ‘Bone Appetit’, where the culinary pursuits of my heart often wrestled with the demands of my job. While my stomach growled in protest, duty called. The owner, a bulldog named Chef Meatball, mentioned a suspicious character—a Great Dane with a taste for the finer things—had been lurking around the shop.

As we turned the corner of Retriever River, I mused on the nature of our task. Life in Spencerville was often peaceful, almost utopian, but every so often, a whiff of mystery would waft through the streets and tickle the very essence of my detective soul.

With Brutus’ astute observations and my unparalleled sniffing abilities, we picked up a scent. It was faint, tinged with the unmistakable smell of canine vanity—a trail of doggy perfume that led us to Shih Tzu Stadium.

There, lounging confidently in the stands, was the Great Dane in question, his neck adorned with a collar so shiny it could signal aliens. With the practiced stealth of a hound, I approached. One cannot simply accuse a fellow canine without evidence—this is Spencerville, after all, a place of decorum and civility.

“Pardon me, good sir,” I bayed, “might I inquire as to where one acquires such an exquisite accessory?”

The Great Dane, taken aback by my undeniable charm and detective prowess, faltered. Beneath his poised exterior lurked the guilt only a dog who’s chewed the best slipper in the house could know.

In moments, he confessed, caving to the weight of justice as effortlessly as I succumbed to the allure of a well-prepared steak. The case was solved, the collars recovered, and my stomach could finally partake in the feast it had been promised.

As I lay beside Brutus back at the precinct, my belly full and my pride fuller, I reflected on the day’s work. Here in Spencerville, amongst friends and food, we tackle the tales of mystery and theft, maintaining order in our little haven.

And as I drift off to sleep, my toy by my side and my sibling at my paws, I think how lucky I am to be a part of Pet Nine-Nine, upholding the tail-wagging legacy of this nearly perfect place. For in the end, each collar returned, each treat earned, and each nap taken, is but a moment in time, leading up to that grand reunion with our dearly missed humans.

It’s ruff work, but someone’s got to do it.

The End.