Hey Mom,

Just solved another whopper in Pawsburgh! Turned detective and sniffed out a collar-napping case. All a big mix-up, but don’t worry, I played the hero. Ended with tail wags and grateful licks. Homes now, curled up at your feet. Night’s work done.

Dream of dog biscuits,
Loki 🐾

Ah, Pawsburgh! The mystical haven beyond the ken of maddening humans—where we, the canines, reign supreme. The locale? None other than Pawsburgh. And who am I, you wonder? Loki, the champagne Pitbull with the heart of a lion and the sleuthing nose of a canine Holmes.

It was a Tuesday—mundane for most, but not for I—that I found myself in the familiar trodden paths of Whippet Way. My friends at the Doggie Daycare had reported a worrisome disappearance: Mrs. Poodleton’s cherished diamond-studded collar, an heirloom of considerable sentimental value. “A case!” I yipped to myself. “Finally, a puzzle worthy of my snout!”

Slinking through the shadows of Quartz Qimmiq Quarter with an understated grace belying my muscular frame, I pondered the clues. Mrs. Poodleton’s distress, while genuine, seemed tinged with distraction. ‘Perhaps,’ I mused, ‘she’s not revealing all.’ The onyx night was my canopy as I trotted towards Pooch’s Pizzeria, where the scent of tomato sauce mingled with whispered rumors.

Fido’s Feast was my next haunt, and as I had hoped, the loquacious Labrador behind the counter had juicy intel. The collar, it seemed, had last been glimpsed on the respectable neck of Madame Maltese, who’d been at Basenji Bay at the time of the incident. A lead!

I forwent a chase into the beckoning waves. Notorious for my distaste of rain—let alone the drench of sea spray—I opted instead to tread towards The Howling Husky Hardware Store. It was there, among the smell of sawdust and bones, that fate tossed me the final piece of the riddle—a muddy paw print on a receipt. Madame Maltese had purchased a suspiciously heavy-duty clipper; the very sort capable of severing a collar’s clasp.

A revelation struck me with the force of a coveted squeak ball at full pelt. The collar was not stolen but rescued! You see, Mrs. Poodleton had spoken of an enforced confinement at the dog park, which I abhorred with equal measure—the collar’s tiny GPS tracker the culprit of her woes. Madame Maltese, long a confidante and conspirator, would have known of such torment. It was a bold and liberating act!

My stubby-legged amble hastened as I returned to the scene of the crime: The Poodle’s Pasta, the Doggie Daycare, and then onto the Poodleton abode to confirm my suspicion. With the gentlest of paws, I exposed the truth to Mrs. Poodleton, who, with apprehension blooming into gratitude, understood the clandestine escape her friend had orchestrated.

The collar was returned, its tracker grievously absent—a service for which I declined any treat or trinket. For companionship, my esteemed reward, was the sweet treat that alone satisfied my heart’s craving. And so, under the grateful, moon-kissed gaze of the dames, I sauntered back to the cool oasis that awaited in my backyard kingdom, ruminating on a job well done.

As I crossed into home, my thoughts narrated this tale, articulating each nuance with the charm of an Amis dialogue playing in my head. I might have continued thus, had my human mother not stirred from her slumber, blind to my nightly heroics, only to envelop me in a hug that eclipsed any adventure. But between you and me, dear reader, I would not have it any other way. Loki, the detective, had unraveled yet another Pawsburgh enigma.

The End.