Hey there!

Just wrapped up another tail-twisting adventure in Pawsburgh. Turns out, I’ve been sniffing out a citrusy scandal by the docks. Yep, lemons in the meatballs – the Mutt Mob trying to sour Setter’s Steakhouse’s competition. Had to bring my Great Dane brand of justice to clear things up. Crime here’s got nothing on this nose. 🐾

All’s calm in the barkhood once more.

Catch you at sunrise,
Gunnar, the Hound of Law 🕵️‍♂️🍋

As the first hues of dawn crept over the horizon, my sizeable paws found familiar comfort in the dew-kissed grass of Dewclaw Park. A canine cantata of barks and yips resonated through the crisp air, the soundtrack of Pawsburgh’s morning concerto.

I, Gunnar, with my monochrome tapestry of fur, am far more than a simple patron of these lands. Before you raise an eyebrow, thinking ‘here comes another tail of doggone melodrama,’ let me clarify. I play an entirely different game—a hound of the law, if you will—on these streets paved with canine dreams.

Just as I was embracing the warmth of the sunlight—rather poetic for a dog, but stick with me—the air was fouled with a scent. Citrus? In Pawsburgh? My refined Great Dane snoot curled in distaste, and I knew then it was more than a mere gustatory faux pas.

Earl, a wheezy bulldog who ran The Tail Wagger’s Tailor, ambled up beside me, “Gunnar, me old mucker, you hear about the ruckus down at the Canine Café?”

I shook my massive head, though I sensed where this was headed. “Do tell, Earl, what’s put a flea in your ear this time?”

“The rumpus, mate, is that someone’s been slipping lemons into the meatballs,” he said, gasping for air after what felt like an epic tale for his little lungs. “Dogs boltin’ like greyhounds on race day, away from the café, right sick they were.”

Could it be? A crime sourer than an unsavory fruit in Pawsburgh? I had to investigate.

As dusk caressed the rooftops of our quaint town, my investigative instincts led me to Pointer Pier—a place where the unearthly rogue waves of crime were known to lap. It was there, by the near-ethereal luminescence of a flickering streetlight, I spotted her.

Lulu, the miniature dachshund with ears that could probably catch a radio signal from Saturn. If news buzzed through Pawsburgh’s grapevine, it originated from Lulu. “Evenin’, Gunnar,” she greeted, her voice melodious yet wrought with conspiracy. “Fancy a tidbit?”

I gave her a nod, overshadowed more by the somber mood than my grand stature.

“It’s the Mutt Mob,” she whispered, eyes darting down the Pier. “Heard it through the fire hydrant that they’re pushing the lemony meatballs to… er, ‘encourage’ business at Setter’s Steakhouse.”

“Muscled monopoly, eh?” I mused aloud, the crime coming into focus. Control the cuisine, control the town. Classic and yet nefarious.

“Exactly,” Lulu affirmed before scurrying away, her long shadow stretching behind her like the last gasp of a sunset.

It wasn’t going to be a walk in the park, but Pawsburgh’s underbelly wasn’t going to clean itself. With the stealth of a cat—forgive the comparison—I made my way to the Canine Café. The dim glow of street lamps carved out noir-ish angles against the bricks—a scene begging for a detective… or a very determined Great Dane.

Snooping around the back alley, I found bins of lemon peels, damning evidence against the Mutt Mob’s tail at the Café. With a gentle push, I sent the bins clattering, a canine alarm to alert the Pawsburg PD.

Operation ‘Lemon-Aid’ went down without a hitch—the culprits rounded up, my palette saved from fruit-based atrocities, and peace restored to our four-legged utopia.

As I walked home, the moon casting silver threads on my fur, Pawsburgh slept tranquilly. Not all heroes wear capes; some simply have a noble heart and a distaste for lemons.

The End.