Hey Mom,

Today in Pawsburgh, Rocky and I turned detective and uncovered a puppy prank behind the mysterious whistles – just a choir in training. We kept their secret for the town’s charm. Another day, more light-hearted sleuthing with my flair intact. You’d be proud!

Tail wags,
Coco Chanel 🐾✨

A Peekapoo’s Pawsburgh Peculiarities

Ah, a typical day in Pawsburgh for me, Coco Chanel? I daresay it would involve less frolicking in mud puddles and more sauntering down the magnificent Papillon Promenade with a certain grace I’ve cultivated since puppyhood. You know me—I wouldn’t be caught dead making canine snow angels in the Diamond Doberman Dunes. No, I hold my top-knotted head high, secured with my signature bow, and cast a discerning eye on all that unfolds around me.

This morning, like every morning, began under the soft hum of heaven, with Mother indulging in her beauty sleep and I quietly slipping through the flap of freedom installed just for me. Over Vizsla Valley I trotted, inspecting the delicate dew on blades of grass—a wonderment, they are—until I made for Bulldog’s BBQ to meet my confidante, Rocky, for our clandestine congregation.

You see, being a distinguished denizen of this dog-dream world comes with certain responsibilities. Rocky and I—we’re not just here for the kibble and cuddles. We seek the truth, uncovering the odd and the inexplicable, just like those humans Mulder and Scully—though with considerably better hearing.

Just yesterday, between dainty bites of my exquisite cheese platter at Chowhound’s Chophouse (compliments of Her Daddy’s generosity), a perplexing phenomenon pricked my ears. A wanderer from Woof and Whisker Wellness Center whined about wraith-like whistles wafting in from the west. “West”, of course, being the direction of Collie’s Cuisine—a place reputed not only for its fine dining but also for its paranormal pie à la mode.

“Something peculiar is afoot,” I mumbled to Rocky, who answered with his typical nonchalance—more interested in the scent of a nearby hydrangea than my investigative impulses.

But today, as we reconvened, I could tell this had become more than a mere trifle to him; perhaps it was how his usually slothful tail now kept tempo with a mystery only he could sense.

“Rocky,” I interrogated, firmly yet affectionately, “Were you able to sniff out anything about the whistles?”

With a snort and a silent nod (he’s the strong, silent type, you see), he led the way to The Tail Wagger’s Tailor, where indeed, the air carried a tune—melodious and mournful. The dog population milled about, going on with their doggy businesses, blissfully unaware of the ostensible sounds from the nether.

Through our sleuthing at the salon (where I partook in a minor detour for a touch-up on my top knot), we traced the sound’s origins. Not from Collie’s Cuisine, as initially hypothesized, but from a hidden alley behind the chef’s special soufflé station.

And do you know what we found? Puppies, a good dozen or so, coordinating howls to mimic that of the fabled Pawsburgh Phantom—rascals staging a prank purely for the purpose of stirring excitement amongst the grown folk. “A training choir,” they called it, their innocent faces upturned, relishing their contrived chorus.

With Rocky at my side, panting in amusement, we decided together that some tales are best left untold. The mystical allure of Pawsburgh preserved, our secret safe, we returned to Papillon Promenade.

As night whispered its return, I indulged in my heart’s dearest pastime: lounging under the stars, a single kernel of popcorn balanced on my paw—savored, as all life’s simplest pleasures should be. Perhaps tomorrow would bring us another Pawsburgh puzzle. Perhaps it wouldn’t.

In either case, I’d be there—with a well-groomed whisker to the wind, ready to chase the truth or simply savor another day of doghood’s delight. After all, a Peekapoo’s work is never done.

The End.