Hey Mom,

Just wrapped up another tail-twitching day as Pawsburgh’s top dog-detective. Unraveled the Christmas tinsel heist, dished out justice with a side of cheese, and saved the day with my trusty sidekick (and brother) Rycker. All in a day’s work! Ryck says hi.

*Wags and wiggles,*
Trixie 🐾✨

In the hush-hush corners of dogdom that humans dare not dream of, there’s a place I venture to when the big folk are lost in their world of jobs and dreams. They call it Pawsburgh, and trust me, it’s more than just fire hydrants and bones. Amidst that patchwork quilt of tail-wagging destinations, there’s a narrative afoot, a tale that often finds me, Trixie the Chihuahua, pint-sized detective with the heart of a lion, nose-down in the most peculiar of mysteries.

Take the sun-drenched day that had us at Onyx Otterhound Oasis, me and Rycker – He’s my brother, you know? Twice my size and half the instinct. We were lounging when a hot tip popped about a heist at Happy Hounds Dog Walking, the kind that gets your fur bristling and your paws itching for some real paw-pound pavement action.

I say, “Rycker, there’s a wrong that’s been righted by nobody,” because I’m the one for catchy phrases, and I see him all perplexed, his big brown eyes squinting.

“You mean righted by somebody?” is his guess. He’s cute when he’s clueless.

So we zip through the bustling borough, me with my woven rope toy – never leave home without a good chew. It’s essential, like cheese for a mousetrap. Anyway, we dart past Shepherd’s Shawarma, the hotbed for the savory gossip, and I catch the end of a bark: “Corruption at the council?”

Now, my wee tail doesn’t wag for nothing. I smell the scent of scandal, mixed with the tang of tzatziki.

By the time we make it to the precinct at Hound Heights, my suspicions are bubbling up like soda on the snoot. “Why is Pet Partners Pet Supplies offloading twice the tinsel than last Christmas?” I mutter, more to myself than my sidekick, who’s struggling not to ogle Bark-n-Bite Bistro’s bacon bonanza.

“Christmas in March?” Rycker’s ears perk. “Trixie, has the whole town lost its marbles?”

“No, Ryck,” I explain with all the patience tucked in my tiny chest, “but someone’s up to their hairy necks in trouble-making.”

We weave our way between the docked tails and curled fur at Setter Shore, against the yip-yapping rhythm of paws meeting sand, and the Poodle’s Pasta, whose meatballs are known to spark culinary sonnets if you’re into that kind of thing, which I am, if only when off-duty.

Word from the waves is that the council’s been bribing officials with treats – not your garden-variety kibble, mind you, but the gourmet stuff – and my four-legged friends Eggnog and the Feline Gang are set to fall victim to this fishy business.

“How do we clear their names and save their tails?” That’s Rycker, the worry in his voice making it crack like ice on a January morning.

“With cunning and canine wit,” I say. I’ve already hatched a plan, you see, inspired by my fear of the vacuums – I decide we’ll scare the guilty into talking.

That’s how we find ourselves skulking in the shadows behind Canine Couture Clothing, the threads popular with the high-collar crowd. I’d arranged a meeting with the most pompous poodle this side of the hydrant, and she’s the key — fluffier than a quiche.

Sure as sniff, when the cloak-and-dagger dealings come to a head, Rycker’s looming shadow and a strategically timed bark from yours truly were enough to whisk the beans from their can. With a confession and the swaying of gavel tails back at the precinct, the collars were tight around the culprits, not us.

So, as I cozy into my blanket fortress – a soft and cushy stronghold – I recount the day’s deeds to my human, who chuckles and shakes their head, none the wiser to the sprawling Pawsburgh plots uncovered by their la petite sleuth.

“I tell ya, Ryck,” I murmur into my beloved’s blanketed embrace, “justice is a dish best served with a side of cheese.”

The End.