Hey Ma and Pa,

Just a quick tail wag from your son, Coach. Wrapped up another mystery down at Spencerville – saved the Tail Waggin’ Contest trophy from a thieving squirrel! I guess you could say I’m the Sherlock Bones of the canine world. 🕵️‍♂️🐾 All’s well, and I’m off for some heroic belly rubs and chew toy celebrations.

Keep your paws crossed for my next adventure!

Licks and sniffs,
Coachie 🐶✨

I reckon it’s a fine day here in Spencerville, and I’m sittin’ out here in the Fawn Cream Maltese Meadow, lookin’ at the glory of the Golden Gate Gardens just yonder, with my tongue hangin’ out to the left in contemplation, as it does. Now, I’m not your average pooch whose tales—or should I say, tails—get tucked between their legs at the first sign of frolicsome trouble. No, sir. I’m Coach, the dawg of the hour, or so they say.

These paws have been patrollin’ the lively streets of our little town as part of the elite Pet Nine-Nine, where every day’s a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside a chew toy. Today, I fancied myself to tackle the most peculiar case this side of North Chihuahua Castle: the missing trophy of the annual Spencerville Tail Waggin’ Contest, an award more revered than the juiciest bone in Chow Down Chow Chow.

My gumshoe instincts were itchin’ like a flea circus as I ambled my way to The Woofy Bakery, hopin’ to sniff up some clues from the daily congregatin’ gossips. With a nose like mine, clues tend to just float up, as mouthwaterin’ scents of sizzlin’ bacon and sweet pies linger through the air. Ah, the stumblebum antics of sneaky cat burglars never stood a chance ‘gainst ol’ Coach here.

The day was young, and I reckoned Pepper, Fenway, and the lot would be nosin’ ’round soon for their daily bread and sniff. But before they arrived, I had to case the joint – and what better cover than the communicable charm and lovable mug of an English bulldog? “Howdy, Miss Maple,” I greeted the clerk, my ears perked for any out-of-turn whispers or idle prattle.

It was then that the infamous vacuum cleaner, arch-nemesis to all canine kind, roared to life. My ears flattened, I commenced with a stern glare. Few varmints could unsettle this steadfast hackles, but that contraption of infernal din sure had a way of makin’ a dog’s hackles rise. Then, as if sent by Providence, I eyed a glint behind the flour sack—a silver cup overlaid with the faint paw prints of… notorious paws?

Well, now, the plot, as they say, was as thick as peanut butter stuck to the roof of your mouth. As Miss Maple busied herself with the devilish machine, I sauntered nonchalantly, as is the manner of us bulldogs, and clinched that trophy between my proverbial canines. It was as careless a mistake as leavin’ a steak unguarded around a hound with a taste for meatier matters.

Gatherin’ my squad in Paws-A-Latte for a convocation of the highest order, I laid down the law of the land: “Listen up, my four-legged constituents, we got ourselves a bandit bolder than ol’ Blackbeard himself, huzzah!” Their tails waggin’ with anticipation, I could see the spark of teamwork igniting in their eyes bright as a porch light on a dark night.

We took to our charge with the temerity of a cat on a hot tin roof. After no small amount of sniffin’ around, tail-twitchin’ reckonin’, and ears to the ground – mostly because I had taken to a quick nap, bein’ so inclined as a bulldog – we unearthed the culprit: a sneaky squirrel clad in an acorn beret, frankly as nervy as they come, with aspirations to make his nest the envy of Spencerville.

The day won, I sauntered home with the gang, swaggerin’ ‘neath my fur and contemplatin’ the quiet joys of honor and duty, of soon-to-be-celebrated belly rubs, and of the deep, unabashed delight of chewin’ on a water bottle like it’s the grandest toy bestowed upon dogkind. For as much as I’m a lawhound, I’m a comfort-hound at heart. And in this near-perfect place we call Spencerville, I reckon that’s just the cat’s meow.

The End.