Hey buddy,

Ace here. I’ve added ‘detective’ to my resume after sniffing out my mischievously misplaced tennis ball turned sausage saga in Pawsburg. What started as a search for my bouncy companion ended in a feast fit for a furry sleuth. Ball retrieved, case cold but belly full! Who let the dogs out? Me! 🐾

Cheers,
The Ace of Tails

Listen to the story here

Oh, blessed Pawsburg, a land of freedoms untethered – the kind of place where a dog like myself could wile away days without the dread of a sprouting brussel sprout or a tedious stay-induced slumber. The name is Ace, thrill-seeker by dawn, gourmet by dusk, and now, it appears, a sleuth under Pawsburg’s starlit canopy.

It began as any other evening in this mysterious hamlet of hounds, where street lamps flicker like fireflies and the constellations above wink at the scurrying below. I had taken to Garnet Greyhound Grove – a haven for those of us bestowed with sprightly legs – and it was amid this greenery that I stumbled upon a caper most intriguing.

‘Mystery under Elms,’ the headline in my head read, quite fitting for the scene, as my much-adored, rather chewed-up tennis ball had vanished into thin air, leaving nary a scent around the age-old trees it calls home. Why, that tennis ball had been loyal, a trusty sidekick on my exploits; it had more bounce than a pup on his birthday. Crime of the century, I dare say, to anyone with a wag to spare.

The plot, I mused, must have been thicker than my Smiths’ meatloaf. I nosed my way to Pinscher Plaza, where the air buzzed with gossip that could make a blue-ribbon bitch blush.

“Have you seen a—”

Before I could even plead my case, Bessie winked her doe-eyed wink. “We’ve bigger fish to fry, Ace,” she uttered. “Or should I say, sausages to sizzle? Sniffer’s Sandwiches reports a heist of the foulest order.”

My ears perked. Sausages, you say? My Achilles’ heel, the siren call to my devoted snout.

“Oh, a purloined ball is what’s amiss,” I remarked, but my grumble belied the gravity of the meat-laden crisis.

“Join us,” Bessie purred, conspiratorially. Dash had appeared beside her, his spaniel ears taut with anticipation. “For our four-legged fraternity, Ace.”

Well, when duty yelps, I cannot help but heed the call. There’s camaraderie, and then there’s culinary atrocity prevention. Swapping solo quest for collaborative enterprise, the three of us stood, a triad poised to take on Pawsburg’s most pressing predicaments.

Meandering through the lamplit labyrinth of our canine conclave, we pawed into Labrador Lunch—a fine establishment where even the plates assume you’ve won Best in Show. We sniffed about for fragrant clues but found the joint cleaner than a virgin bone.

As the night’s tapestry unfurled, my appetite grew fiercer than a terrier on a trouser leg. Our investigation zigzagged us to The Dapper Dog Salon, rife with tantalizing tittle-tattle but void of hefty leads.

“Exercise patience,” I reminded myself, or perhaps it was Dash’s look of consternation that reminded me. Patience, the stray no one wishes to foster.

Then it hit me – amidst our fiery pursuit, a familiar aroma winding its way through Pawsburg’s alleys like a ballet dancer in a bulldog’s world. Yes, the scent of grilled sausages! Quick as a cat in a rocking chair shop, we gave chase, sniffing our way toward Chihuahua’s Chimichangas, the probable hotbed of our ham-handed heist.

And lo and behold, our noses did not deceive! There, huddled in the darkest corner of the patio, lonely as a lamp post in the land of blind dogs, reposed my dear old tennis ball, accompanied by a feast worthy of a K-9 king – an entire platter of sizzling sausages, half-gone, yet still majestic.

So, it seems my ball wasn’t stolen but simply misguided in its journey, lured away by the scent of delectable meats – an understandable mishap befitting a sleuth-detective like me.

As for the sausage snatcher, let some other pup take the glory. I had my ball back and a bounty of treats before me; a grander ending no detective could dream.

The End.