Hey Eleanor,

Just checked in from tonight’s espionage escapade. I’ve been all over Pawsburg, blending with the dark and sniffing out secrets. Stopped the microchip scandal with a squeaky hedgehog heist. Another quiet victory for Ace, the furtive furball defender of our town’s balance. The whispers of my tales might stay hushed, but know the night always speaks my name.

Catch you at sunrise,
Ace 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

In the hush of twilight, when the last rays of sunshine become memories and shadows grow long enough to tangle with the dark, I, Ace, assume my truest role. My black fur blends with the night as I slink past Eleanor’s collection of Murakami and Christie—a silent, spectral agent on a mission known only to the moon and me.

The town of Pawsburg murmurs with secrets. Tonight, the air stinks of espionage, something clandestine worming its way through Garnet Greyhound Grove. I make haste, avoiding Harrier Harbor’s shimmering waters with the elegance of a disdainful prince. Water may be a fine cohort for ducks, but it is the ultimate adversary for a fur-clad operative such as myself.

The mission? A whispered rumor, an airborne secret that leapt from the lips of the wise old owls that watch over Shar-Pei Shores. It’s a whiff of treachery carried by the coastal wind, something about a microchip hidden within a squeaky hedgehog toy. My favorite kind of toy. The perfect cover. It’s a low-down, double-crossing kind of move, trading secrets under the guise of idle play.

Laboring into Labrador Lunch, I eschew the earnest greetings of pugnacious pugs. They don’t know I’m working, sniffing out dossiers between bites of venison—my body here, but my mind skulking in the alleys of international canine intelligence.

The Whippet Wraps joint shrills with the kind of hysteria only found in places where the burritos come with triple cheese—suffused with a sense of urgency just shy of paranoia. I slip past, dodging chipotle splatters like bullets in a war-torn Kafkian daydream.

In the shadows of Pawfect Pastries, I catch the eye of a Chihuahua whisperer. There’s no such thing as coincidence. I watch them pass a plain brown wrapper to a basset known for his espionage—but today, he’s not talking, he’s just drooling over eclair remnants.

I stalk through The Wagging Tail Bookstore, scanning for signs among the shop of literary guises. Eleanor always says that every book has its secret, and tonight, I’m inclined to believe her. The Canine Café howls with laughter and double espresso, a convenient backdrop for those peddling contraband kibble.

Happy Hounds Dog Walking’s proprietor gives me a nod—her eyes hold the glint of someone familiar with the art of deception. I’m close.

Then there, beneath a waning crescent moon, the bustling of Harrier Harbor speaks to me. A code, a cipher only those with fur and a penchant for sleuthing can decipher.

“Ruff, ruff, grrr,” goes the bulldog. “Arf, yip, woof,” replies the terrier. It’s all a dog and pony show—if the shows were run by spy dogs who understood subtlety as much as they did fetch.

Ditching the harbor, I flick my tail in casual farewell, making for the coastline where the trade is to go down. I can’t say I care the way they think I should, but the pangs of conspiracy buzz harder than a pack of hornets in my head.

There it is—my squeaky hedgehog, exchanged under muzzle by unknowing pups, shadow playmates of my own daily masquerade.

I snatch the toy inconspicuously, peeling back layers to reveal the gleaming microchip—a tiny herald of espionage, destined to unmask the duplicitous underbelly of Pawsburg.

Retreating into the night, I return the toy to its rightful place, the chip now safely disarmed in my possession. I emerge a phantom once more, the defendant of an untold balance. The stories sung by my friends, be they butterflies or squirrels, may never carry the full weight of my escapades. But somewhere between the stars and the rustling grass, the tales of Ace live on—emboldened by the night and vouched for by the dawn.

The End.