Hey fam,

Solved another mind-boggler in Pawsburgh! I sniffed out the case of the missing kibble, outsmarted Whiskers, and restored disharmony among the canines. Turns out, I’m more than just LC—I’m also The Guardian of the Grain! Tell the cats the game’s up, and I’m on the prowl. Tail wags and triumph!

Licks and sniffs,
LC aka Sherlock Bones 🕵️‍♀️🐾

In Pawsburgh, a town that had mastered the art of canine revelry, where every bark echoed with the timbre of joy, a peculiar zephyr was rustling through the verdant branches of Cavalier Cove—a zephyr dense with the scent of mystery. I felt the pull of the unexplained like a leash tugging at my collar, a curious yearning that couldn’t be satisfied by the usual frivolities bestowed upon us tail-wagger types.

Folks around here fancy me the canine incarnation of Sherlock Bones—inscrutable and preternaturally perceptive. I suppose that’s as much due to my piercing gaze, which could spot a treat pocketed in a peacoat from thirty paces, as to my mental acumen. And today, my piercing gaze played across the landscape, anticipating the peculiar and the particular.

Whiskers, tail high, a dainty swish-swish marking his approach, padded over to me, his cat’s grin wider than the menu at Doggone Deli. “LC, darling,” he purred, his words humming like a well-tuned engine, “there’s a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma just waiting for your discerning snout at Harrier Harbor.”

In Pawsburgh, our cat-and-dog relationships are different than out there, in the big human-hugging world; more cordial, more… symbiotic.

With that tip of the whisker, I slipped away, bidding adieu to my ball and bones, leaving behind the savory aroma of chicken and rice that Barker’s Bakery had been taunting my taste buds with all morning. Every puzzle needed a solver, and by dog, that was my destiny today, even if it came cat-recommended.

As I trotted toward the Harbor, I mused on Pawsburgh culinary culture. The idea of trading the familiar delicacies of Chowhound’s Chophouse for a herring at Harrier Harbor would leave a poor taste in my mouth, but there I was, sniffing my way to a fishing boat capsized amidst a flotilla of yapping Yorkies and flustered spaniels. The scene had all the chaos of bath time but none of the wet regret.

It didn’t take keen eyes to spy that the boat had “Mystery” painted on its side—irony thick as the fur on Max’s back. A clue, or just cosmic humor? My belly rumbled, reminiscing the chicken and rice I’d forsaken, while my mind danced with thoughts, patent Chayefsky prose full of noise and nuance.

“There’s been a theft,” a gabby Golden Retriever blurted, tail unmoving in the seriousness of the declaration. “A cargo of kibble—gone!”

Kibble wasn’t exactly Barker’s Bakery level cuisine, but the principle was what prodded at my sense of justice. I approached the twitchy tangle of dogs quivering with anxious energy, and with a voice calm as a still pond, I beseeched, “Start from the beginning.”

A cacophony of barks and yips ensued, tails wagging tales of this and that, and more that than this. Fishing out the facts felt akin to herding butterflies, but those fluttering wings of thought would soon weave into a coherent point, I was sure. The bulb flickered, ideas igniting—wait a minute—butterflies!

I knew the thief, or rather, the type of curious creature tempted by the allure of kibble. Citrus scents may be my downfall, but Whiskers harbored a disliking for citronella that bordered on the pathological. He’d sent me running, yes, but not away from a crime, per se, rather toward discovering one.

“I suspect,” I stated with the austerity of an afternoon soap opera’s climax, my paw authoritatively pressed to the boat’s hull, “you’ll find your kibble at Whisker’s doorstep, where no citrus dares to linger.”

The crowd gasped, murmurs rising like a soufflé in the oven of The Woofy Bakery. The game was afoot, or a-paw, and I wasn’t about to wait around for the sequel.theValue of bath time seemed suddenly insignificant against my newfound role as Pawsburgh’s protector, her guardian of the grain. And as I dashed off to confront Whiskers—the sun setting, casting a sherbert glow across Blue Basenji Bay—I couldn’t help but let escape a bark of delight.

The game was indeed afoot, and the intricate tapestry of Pawsburgh’s story was all the richer for it.

The End.

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