Hey fam, it’s Gordon! Just wanted to let you know I cleared my name in the great chicken-pie heist today. Turns out it was Tom Puss, the sneaky cat, after all. Managed to save my reputation and even snagged a few sample bites of pie for my troubles. Sniff, snack, snooze—Spencerville is back to being doggy nirvana. 🐶

Love, Sweet Pea

Living in Spencerville is about as close to doggy nirvana as it gets. Imagine a town where the grass is always green, the air is filled with buzzing excitement (and not those annoying summer insects), and the scent of liver treats wafts on the breeze like some irresistible siren song. Plus, I get to do all my favorite things: sniff, snack, and snooze. My name is Roberto Gordon Gau—just call me Gordon—and I’m a tri-colored Beagle with a snout like a divining rod and ears so floppy they nearly slap against my paws. But today, despite all the kibble goodness and the accommodating ambiance, I am an unjustly accused dog on a quest for canine justice.

The day started normal enough. I was lounging in my favorite sun spot in the backyard, savoring the warmth on my fur, when disaster struck. Quincy, Emma, and Abby—the usual beagle gang—came rushing in, their eyes wide like they’d seen the ghost of an unchewed shoe.

“Gordon, they say you did it!” Quincy barked, his tail wagging low. Quincy always had a knack for melodrama.

“Did what?” I yawned, lazily rolling onto my other side.

“Snatched the roast chicken pie from Pup-Tastic Pizza!” Emma yipped.

My eyes snapped open. What a preposterous accusation! I had been avidly sniffing around the ‘Sniff ‘n’ Snack’ dumpsters earlier, but that’s hardly a crime worthy of this level of scandal. But the appeal of a roast chicken pie—of course, they would suspect me. After all, I am a connoisseur of chicken. This could ruin my well-earned reputation of respectability.

“Not possible,” I declared, raising my head high. “I’ve been here all day, living the good life. Sun, no rain, and definitely no pilfering.”

“How can you prove it?” Abby questioned, her big brown eyes filled with concern.

The gravity of the situation demanded action. I, Gordon, had to clear my name. “To Bullmastiff Boardwalk!” I decreed, and off we padded, whiskers twitching.

Upon arrival at the Boardwalk, it seemed everyone was gossiping about the chicken-pie heist. Lexi and Cede, my trusty Basset Hound companions, trotted over, their ears flopping in synchronous sorrow.

“Bad news is spreading faster than fleas in a dog park,” Cede lamented.

“We need facts,” Lexi suggested. “Gordon, did you sniff anything unusual at Sniff ‘n’ Snack?”

“Aha,” I barked, sudden realization dawning. “I did get a whiff of something odd—a scent unfamiliar to my seasoned snout. There was a tang of fish… probably catfish!”

We set off towards East Pug Palace, suspecting the notorious Tom Puss, a cat with an appetite to rival mine. Cats in Spencerville, albeit rare, do exist, and when they do, they mean business.

Sure enough, there he was, lounging atop a cushioned throne, his whiskers twitching mischievously at our arrival. “Ah, Gordon,” he mewed with mock innocence. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

I cut to the chase. “Enough small talk, Tom. We know you swiped the pie. The smell of catfish gives you away.”

Tom stretched luxuriously, savoring every moment. “Prove it, dog.”

Just when I thought we’d have to pull out my ace trick—barking madly until everyone caved—Abby came running up, triumph in her eyes. She had uncovered a tuft of fur beneath the crime scene. White as snow, and distinctly feline.

The game was up. “Alright, you got me,” Tom confessed with a lazy smirk. “But can you blame a cat for wanting a taste of the good stuff?”

We took Tom and the evidence to the Town Council, where my name was promptly cleared. The news spread even faster than the initial accusation. I was, once again, Roberto Gordon Gau—the upstanding Beagle citizen of Spencerville.

By evening, I was back to lounging in my sun spot, justice restored. The gang gathered around, their wagging tails serving as my badge of honor. As the sun dipped behind Boxer Beach, I reflected on my adventure.

After all, in the nearly perfect place called Spencerville, peace always returns, one wag at a time.

And as for the roast chicken pie… let’s just say I earned a few ‘samples’ for all my troubles.

The End.