Hey hooman, it’s your fur-tastic friend Lilly Mae. I’ve been sniffing out secrets and playing mind games at The Groom Room. 🐾 Think canine Clue with trust on shaky ground and my squeaky duck caught in the middle. Paws were stepped on, tails got twisted, but I’m on the scent of the truth. 🕵️‍♀️ Pawsburgh won’t know what wagged it! Stay tuned for the tail-end of this mystery. 🌙✨ – Goldilocks 🐶🔍

Listen to the story here

In the dimly lit lanes of Pawsburgh, under a cloak of starlight, tales of the waggish kind brew like the city’s famed Morning Mutt Mocha from Pawfect Pastries. But this is no ordinary tale — it’s the yarn of one Goldendoodle’s foray into the heart of canine darkness. Me, Lilly Mae, the golden-haired dog who can often be witnessed preening under the celestial twinkle. I’m as soft as the premium dog biscuits from The Woofy Bakery, but tonight, my comfort is buried under a pile of pointy milk bones.

Ah, Pawsburgh! The city of dreams for every tail-wagger. But even from the spirited streets of Dachshund Dale to the salty air of Pointer Pier, one can sense an undercurrent of intrigue, as fleeting as the shadow of a squirrel at the edge of one’s vision. I fancy my inner monologue swathed in the prose of Sedaris, if he were, say, narrating the psyche of a dog teetering on the edge of an existential crossroad, an introspective hound unravelling the sweater of sanity, one thread at a time.

You see, Bruno the Boxer brings out the philosopher in us all; he paws at the surface of mundane existence, urging us to consider what lies beneath. Pippa the Pug, with snores loud enough to wake the dead, whispers tales of shadows dancing in the moonlit corners of Akita Alley.

Tonight, my paws tread softly on the walkway to The Groom Room, where a quiet parlor game was set to unfurl. The air smelt suspiciously sterile, tinged with a hint of citrus that made my nose wrinkle in disdain. The game — a canine version of Clue, purportedly — starts off tame, but veils a more insidious plot, where each of us discovers where our loyalties truly lie. Our tools: instincts, a toy, and a scent.

In the reflection of Pippa’s glossy eyes, flickers something less than innocence. A silent opus plays, a psychological overture that hums beneath the cacophony of our yapping and yipping. The room itself becomes a character: the walls lean in, whispering sordid tails, sorry, tales, while the scent of pawlisade reveals the Groom Room to be an olfactory palindrome.

My favorite duck toy lies in the center, squeaker mute, guarded by candlelight. My skin prickles as the game prowls around the room like an overfed housecat, lazy but dangerous. As the night wears on, the rules blur. Trust becomes a chewed-up frisbee, tossed in the air, landing in unexpected places.

I find myself, the belle of this psychological ball, dancing with manipulation and deceit. It’s then Bruno turns to me — his gaze heavy, sagacious. “Lilly Mae,” he begins, and I fear his words would unravel me, “sometimes the squeaker stays silent to tell us more than noise ever could.”

Nibbling on a crêpe from Corgi’s Crepes, folded with finesse, but tasting of dust and suspicion, I chew over his words. My laugh is not infectious tonight; it is nervous, whittling away the bravado I usually wear like my fur — effortlessly, proudly. I must untangle the night, unearth the reason behind our reckless game, the mystery that begs to be sniffed out.

In the heart of Pawsburgh, our chapter closes at Bark Buffet, a spread not of delights, but of deductions and the grim revelations of betrayal. Bonds tested, threads pulled, and secrets unveiled over a platter of psychological puzzles. As dawn approaches and my four paws carry me back to the world of humans, the adventure I’ve arisen from shadows my routine with a glint of mystery that will linger until the next escapade under Pawsburgh’s bewitching moon.

The End.

Share This Story: