Hey Ma,

Your boy Mugsy cracked the case of the Pawsburgh Phantom—turned out to be a Bulldog chef with a flair for dramatic fog. Digged into some divine Dogclairs, too! Always something cooking in Fire Hydrant Hill. Give Bella a scratch for me.

Nighty night,
Mugzelli 🐾✨

I’ve always known Pawsburgh was no run-of-the-mill Fire Hydrant Hill when it came to cities. For you non-canine folks, that’s the swingin’ dog capital where the streets are paved with squeaky toys and the mailmen, bless their hearts, hand out treats rather than bills. So wouldn’t you know, my latest adventure began just as the moon whispered sweet nothings to the stars and the human world lay in slumber.

It had been a usual day in the human realm: a frisky bout of tug-of-war with the alpha of my pack (which I invariably let her win), a generous helping of the ol’ ground beef delights, and a profoundly reflective session with my esteemed cow hoof. But as the human part of my life curled up with some nonsensical book—I do hope someone informs her that pictures make reading ever so much more engaging—it was time for ol’ Mugsy to traverse the glowing streets of Pawsburgh.

Now, let me tell you, there’s something about the Quartz Qimmiq Quarter that really makes your tail twitch with a life all its own. The cobblestones shimmer under paw; it’s a sight to behold, and it holds an air of enigma that could make any sensible hound’s nose twitch relentlessly. On this night, the supernatural snagged the thread of my curiosity and led me further than usual.

A spectral hound had been tell-tailing around, and some dogs were a furball of nerves about it. I wish I could’ve told them it was likely just the wind hustling through the hedges. But when you deal with dogs, you navigate a world where every horror tale has teeth sharp enough to nip at your bravado.

Through Garnet Greyhound Grove I meandered, and with a stomach yearning for sustenance, I paused at Pawfect Pastries. Let no dog claim they’ve lived if they haven’t sampled their Dogclair—custard-filled, with a scattering of bacon bits on top. As I collected my indulgence, whispers of the ghostly visitor filled the air, chilling the warmth of the pastries.

For some inexplicable reason—perhaps because whipped cream makes me recklessly bold—I sought out this phantom of Pawsburgh. I had Sniffers McFluff’s word that the ghoul frequented Dachshund Dale around the ghastly hour when the moon took her mid-sky throne.

“So there I was,” I’d tell Minnie Pearl later, “venturing into Dachshund Dale, where shadows stretch longer than a Basset’s ears.” It all felt like an eerie lullaby had left the cradle and decided instead to haunt the living daylights out of an unsuspecting pooch.

That’s when I saw it. A fog rolled through, and within that misty embrace, a form, half-seen, more sensed than sighted. Ears back, tail stiff, I trotted over. I could hear the distant howl of Ice and the gang, daring me on.

“It’s alright, old chap,” I said to the specter. The air stilled and whiskers to tail, I wished I hadn’t been such a cocky canine. Turns out my ghost was none other than ChiChi, lost in a haze of dry ice from The Canine Cafe’s latest culinary experiment with nitrogen. Quite the ruckus for a Bulldog engulfed in chef’s fancy.

Underneath Pawsburgh’s full moon, the ‘spirit’ and I shared a good howl about it. There’s nothing supernatural about a Bulldog sous-chef in disguise, except perhaps his ability to escape a five-star kitchen scot-free with enough fur for a toupee still perfectly in place.

Mugsy signing off and remember, when in Pawsburgh, even a phantom might just be a friend in the fog.

The End.