Hey fam! 🐾 What an adventure last night! Turned hero and found Dexter, the runaway retriever, trapped in the Pupsicle Palace 🍖🍗 Had to play Houdini and use my skills (plus a cat’s bobby pin) to set him free. Saved the day before breakfast even hit the bowls! Curley the infamous pet detective nails it again. 😎✨ Time for some ZZZs and a treat. Will bark more about it later! 🐕💤 – Curley

Life in Spencerville is as serendipitous as finding a bone in your bowl without the humdrum necessity of burying it first. I, Curley the Keeshond, found myself awake at the most ungodly hour of the morning; by ungodly, I mean that peculiar time when the bakers at Pup-Cakes start their ovens but no self-respecting canine would consider letting go of their dreams just yet.

On this particular morning, the tranquility of my slumber was demolished by the raucous cawing of the Shepherd Skyline crows. Something was afoot, and it was tickling the edges of my subconscious like a broom to a hard-to-reach cobweb. The world needed the acute intellect and pawfessional abilities of one Curley—pet detective of unparalleled acumen.

And also, I needed to wee. So, out I went.

As I lumbered through the sleeping streets of Spencerville, I heeded the wind’s whispers and the stray leaf’s trajectory as they led me towards Bulldog Bay. There, I found a scene of utter turmoil—a cluster of wide-eyed felines, a nutaria (which is like a pomeranian with an advanced degree), and two dachshunds all chirruping away.

“What seems to be the matter?” I inquired, my tone tinged with both concern and the haughty air one uses when they know they are about to be very, very useful.

“It’s Dexter,” hissed a particularly vocal Siamese, whose name escapes me. “He’s gone missing!”

Dexter, the gregarious golden retriever who makes a hobby of unintentionally terrorizing the cat population, was a well-known fur-onality around here. This called for keen investigation, and perhaps a biscuit—detective work always made me peckish.

We traipsed forth to Retriever River, where Dexter was last seen attempting to paddle upstream, ostensibly under the delusion that he was some sort of canine salmon. As I trotted along, I mentally crossed out the impossible: Dexter hadn’t been abducted by aliens (they prefer chihuahuas this season), nor had he fallen victim to a dog food conspiracy.

My associates and I inspected the vicinity with no luck until I paused, whiskers twitching. The scent – steak and chicken, with a hint of it—aha! Apple! I dashed to the Pupsicle Palace, where Dexter, having followed his stomach like a nose-guided compass, had managed a break-in reminiscent of a furry Houdini.

“Dexter, you colossal nincompoop!” I exclaimed, part exasperated and part admiring. “One cannot simply abscond because the scent of steak-laden treats becomes irresistible!”

He looked at me, forlorn as only a pup trapped in a freezer full of popsicles can.

It took some fancy paw work, but I managed to get him out with a combination of my own wiles and cooperation from a bobby pin one of the cats had on her collar. As expected, Dexter was hero of the hour; the cats were less impressed.

As the sun pierced through the dawn, Spencerville stirred from slumber, oblivious to the nocturnal drama. I walked back to my house, the taste of victory as sweet as the fur-grooming service I knew I’d be getting from The Pampered Pooch Salon for this latest caper.

Curley the Keeshond, pet detective extraordinaire, had done it again. Good show. Now for a well-deserved nap—but only after that wee, naturally.

The End.