Hey fam,

Cracked the case of the missing scented collars over at the Barking Boutique. Turns out Claude was looking to soothe his stormy nerves by nicking them for a chew. Led the sniff-down myself and finally put Pawsburgh’s minds (and noses) at ease. If you need me, I’ll be pursuing justice… or that perfectly grilled chicken.

Stay pawsome,
Tida

Greetings, dear friend, for if you know my name, Titus, then you quite assuredly know the cut of my jib – or more appropriately, the wag of my tail. You might then also know my penchant for a good tale, almost as much as my love for a plump, perfectly grilled chicken. Though today, I bark to you a story of a different flavor, more savory in the mysterious sense and certainly more… unlawful.

‘Twas on a night much like any other in Pawsburgh when the sky decided to sulk, grumbling with thunder enough to ruffle my usually unshakeable demeanor. Beneath this orchestral ballyhoo, amid the flickering lampposts on Sapphire Schnauzer Street, I found myself trotting with purpose. A tale of distress had reached my ears – the Barking Boutique had been the victim of a most heinous crime.

Max, that ever-hyper hound, had come bounding over to my porch, leashing my interest with tidbits of this unfathomable event. “The Barking Boutique’s newest line of collars, Titus – vanished!” he yapped with a kind of enthusiastic alarm only he could muster.

Bella, with her reflective calm, soon joined, her golden brow furrowed in a rare wrinkle of concern. “It’s terribly sordid,” she woofed. “Pawsburgh’s fur stands on end at the thought!”

Thus, at the scene, there I stood, my grey and white coat hardly a cape but my resolve no less heroic as I surveyed the emptied shelves. The air was meaty with confusion, every dog nose sniffing but finding naught but the fading fragrance of foul play.

“Foul play,” I ruminated. “Now there’s poultry not even I can stomach.”

A scruffy Schnauzer officer took notes nearby, scribbling with a paw awkwardly holding a pen. “So, any ideas, Titus?” he asked, hopeful.

Ever the pragmatist, I pondered a moment. “Ignatius,” I began – Ignatius being the Schnauzer sleuth – “consider what this culprit has a taste for. The collars – were they chicken scented?”

A spark lit behind his glasses. “Why, yes, the Boutique’s new ‘Aromatic Gourmet Range.’ How curiously intuitive, Titus!”

Off I trotted, down puddle-speckled streets, my companions by my side. Our first clue led us to Bark Buffet. But no sign revealed a scent-trailed criminal. We then hastened to Paw Pad Thai, sniffed ’round Chihuahua’s Chimichangas, yet the thief’s trail stayed as elusive as celery’s flavor.

It was when passing Woof and Whisker Wellness Center that Bella’s nose twitched with revelation as thunder boomed overhead. She motioned to the mud-spattered flyer plastered on the window, announcing wellness workshops for noisy night terrors.

Park patience, what game of tongue and tail unfolded!

For who else but Claude, the Chihuahua of Chihuahua’s Chimichangas, an entrepreneur with nerves shredded by stormy symphonies, would steal to silence the sky? Chicken-scented collars, indeed! To chew and focus his mind away from the fearsome claps!

Confronted within his own establishment amid the sizzle of his renowned chimichangas, Claude wilted like overcooked greens under our questioning gaze—or chorus, rather.

“Ah, Titus,” he whimpered, paws a-tremble. “I needed a distraction from the cacophony, the celestial gnashing. You, of all dogs, understand the dread?”

My heart did wince; true was his observation. I, vast beast though I am, shared his fear – now there’s an irony to chew upon!

Thus, Claude returned the aromatic wares, all deeds forgiven post-confession. And despite the blundering crime, we offered an ear (and some sage advice) to the chimichanga champion.

So recall, dear reader, Titus the Pitbull, not just as a beast of brawn but one who hunts the truth with fair heart and sharp wit. Should you next find your collar awry, fear not, for I hold a nose for justice – and an ever-ready ear for your tale.

The End.