Hey fam, just solved the case of the missing Mabel—turned out to be her surprise b-day bash! Nearly sniffed my tail off for nothing. All’s well and the squeaky hedgehog’s still squeaking. 🐾🎉 Crime may sleep but this tail never does! – Fable

Hard luck and bacon – that’s the smell that wafts down Schnauzer Street as the night crawls in like a cat that’s broken the cardinal rule of Pawsburgh: no felines allowed. Me? My name’s Fable, and while I can’t crack a safe or solve quadratic equations, I’ve got a nose for trouble and an almost indestructible squeaky hedgehog that squeals like a snitch.

It started like any other night. I trotted across Pomeranian Park, taking the short leash… er, cut, to Blue Basenji Bay. There’s a dive there, Pawfect Pastries, where the moon hangs like a donut ready for the taking. I wasn’t there for the eclairs though; I was on the prowl for something savory, like news or danger, whichever came first.

The Bay was dotted with candle-lit tables, each a vignette of its own melodrama. Rosie, my #1 sister, was supposed to meet me. She’s the sugar in my bowl, always sweetening the plot with some tip or lead. But tonight, the chair across from me remained as empty as a hound’s promise.

I sauntered into Poodle’s Pasta. The place was quiet, the air thick with anticipation and tomato sauce. That’s when I saw her – Renada, with her Border Collie-bordering-on-the-wild side, and that Pit mix grin that says she’s been up to more than chasing tails.

“Renada, what’s the word?” I asked, my voice as gruff as the stubble on a three-day-old pup.

She tossed her head, her eyes slinking around the room. “Fable, something’s barking up the wrong tree. Mabel’s gone missing.”

My heart did a flip, landing squarely on its butt. Mabel, the matriarch, my mom. If she was in trouble, this was no longer a caper; it was a family affair.

I made tracks to Setter’s Steakhouse, passing Canine Couture Clothing and giving The Woofy Bakery a sniff. After all, a guy’s gotta eat, even when the world’s flipping upside down like a new pup trying to find his legs. Word on the street was Mabel was last seen digging up something around the big oak in Pomeranian Park.

As I arrived, the scene was noir as an overcast sky. Barkley, the Shar Pei with more folds than a road map, was waiting for me. His droopy gaze told me this wasn’t just another walk in the park.

“Fable, the scent’s gone cold,” he croaked, like he’d swallowed a lifetime of lies and coughed up the truth.

I scanned the area— nothing but shadows playing tag. But there was a citrus tang in the air – a dead giveaway. Whoever snatched Mabel knew about my nose for trouble and my distaste for the tangy trickery.

Leveraging my charisma, I rallied the troops. From Rosie to ‘Auntie’ Soul, we formed a pack and fanned out as if this were the last game of hide-and-seek before winter’s nap. Every bark and rustle was a potential clue, every whispering leaf a possible witness.

Hours passed like constipated turtles until we found it — an unusual clump of fur snagged on a fence near the Bay, with a scent as distinct as it is familiar. Mabel never strayed too far from her favorite steak tartar at Setter’s.

We circled back. And there she was, inside Setter’s, surrounded by a litter of mini bulls and a birthday cake lit up like a midsummer’s firefly frenzy.

“Mabel!” I barked.

She turned, her eyes twinkling like the stars that guide lost pups home. “Surprise, Fable! Did you really think I’d let a kidnapping spoil my party?”

As we laughed, the tension in my body uncoiled like a well-chewed chew toy. Maybe this wasn’t the darkest whodunit of my career, but it sure had the happiest ending. And that’s the tail – err, tale – of how Pawsburgh kept its charm, and how I kept my title as the most charmingly cheeky Bull Terrier detective around.

The End.

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