Hey Dad, just wrapped up another mind-boggling case here in quirky Spencerville – saved the day by finding my missing plush pal Mugsy, all before breakfast! Turns out it was a battle against domestic cleanliness, not crime. Who needs Sherlock when you’ve got detective work with a side of drool? Cheers, Fat Russell 🕵️‍♂️🐾

In Spencerville, where the notion of a ‘usual day’ is as foreign as the concept of a cat who could resist the inexplicable dance of the red laser dot, I found my morning rather peculiar even by the town’s standards. The sun was indeed adequately sunny, the frogs ribbiting with commendable consistency—everything tickety-boo. And yet there I was, Russell, esteemed pet detective, sprawled upon the back of Pug Palace with a particularly meditative air about me.

You see, the thing with being a detective with a nose for intrigue is quite literally that—a nose has lesser dimensions for concern than, say, a mind. My mind had decided upon waking that something was rather amiss, and directed my nose to scurry off and figure the rest out. My human once mentioned someone called Sherlock, a great detective I am, apparently, inspired by. Quite the detective myself, but with more drool and a better understanding of the importance of naps.

The Spencerville Gazette had woofed about a mystery quite befitting my talents. The case of the missing Mugsy—my plush companion, confidante, and, when the mood strikes, the unsuspecting victim of a chewing that exudes affection rather than savagery.

Having ensured my daily constitutional had me well-equipped for cogitation, I set my paws on a route I knew as well as the back of my jowls. Yet, in my undignified gallivanting, I hadn’t realized a crucial witness scampering beside me.

“Fenway, my fine fellow,” I barked with the decorum that only an English Bulldog detective could muster, “have you perchance seen any soul with the audacity to pilfer a plush likeness of moi?”

Fenway, whose bark was louder than his brain cells, had only managed to contribute a discordant symphony of snorts and frenzied tail-wagging to the conversation. I suspected, as his nose twitched indiscriminately, that Fenway was more likely to solve the square root of a bone than to lead me to my precious Mugsy.

Undeterred by my compadre’s lack of deductive prowess, I sauntered towards The Fetching Deli—the aroma of corned beef an irrefutable siren call. A detail about the scene of the crime had been tickling the recesses of my brilliant Bulldog brain—a clue perhaps, as subtle as the silent promise of a treat. It wafted, an olfactory whisper among the usual smorgasbord of scents…indeed, pastrami.

The delicacy had been Mugsy’s favorite in the days of yore (last Thursday, to be precise). Oh, who was I kidding? It was my favorite, and Mugsy was just guilty by association.

A leap—figurative, not literal (those are strenuous)—of logic suggested the culprit would have visited the delicatessen. I questioned the purveyor, a charming Retriever with an apron thrice nibbled.

“Russell! Here for your usual?” His tone, jovial; his eyes, innocently avoiding mine.

“No, no,” I replied most sagaciously, “I’m here to sniff out a scoundrel. Have you seen anyone with a peculiar interest in plush bulldogs lately?”

“Haven’t seen plushies, but Gus, the Terrier, was in earlier—couldn’t stop yapping about the Monster Vacuum at his place, said it’s been acting odd lately.”

Could it be? The Vacuum—the nemesis of all self-respecting Spencerville inhabitants—was the lead I needed. I thanked the kind-hearted canine with a lick and an undignified wag, before embarking on the final stretch.

To Gus’s household then, with determined strides, and pseudopods for bravery; quite hard to maintain on four legs but who’s observing? As I approached, the roar of the alleged monster emanated from the residence with ghastly force.

“Stay back, foul contraption!” I declared, though I confess the quaver in my bark was less stout-hearted and more stout.

And there, behind the Vacuum, almost out of sight, was Mugsy! I lunged, evasive, to rescue my dear friend from captivity. The Vacuum, of course, hadn’t moved at all—it was inanimate, after all.

The reality of the situation soon dawned on me—it was not the Vacuum that was villainous, for it merely stood where Gus had tired of its presence. No, Mugsy had been inadvertently swept up in a spate of domestic cleanliness.

Case closed with my companion secured, it felt time for a celebratory chew and the embrace of that sun-drenched backyard paradise.

To solve such a case before the second meal of the day—well, that’s just life as Spencerville’s most peculiar pet detective, wouldn’t you agree?

The End.