Hey there!

Reeled in the purloined prize & collared the culprit, all before you could say ‘Who ate the kibble?’ 😉 Sherlock’s got nothin’ on me. Pawsburg’s peace is preserved, thanks to moi, Sassyfrass, the detective with more wit than a Scottie has hairs. Walk tall and wag on, until our next caper!

🐾 Detective S.

Listen to the story here

There I was, Sassyfrass, with my ear to the ground—literally, for I’d heard a whisper of scandal blowing through the leaves of Cavalier Cove. Oh, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. In Pawsburg, I am known far and wide—not for my fetching looks alone—but for my unrivaled detective skills, the kind that could give Sherlock a run for his money, were he a dashing bulldog like myself.

It was a day like any other in this canine utopia. A day ripe with mystery, much like the robust aroma wafting from the renowned Whippet Wraps at lunchtime. But I digress, for the tale at hand concerns one priceless collar, vanished from Fetch! Toys and Treats, as swiftly as a steak disappears from a dog’s bowl.

As I strolled with deliberate pace past the Mastiff’s Meals, where succulent smells sang siren calls to me, the call for justice rang louder. The store owner, a French Spaniel by the name of Pierre, greeted me with urgency in his eyes that spoke of troubled times. He was desperate, for the collar was no mere trinket but the jewel of his shop. “Sassyfrass,” he implored. “You’re our only hope.”

“Fear not,” I assured him, with the coolness of an ice sculpture of a cat. “I shall sniff out this affair quicker than a pup would its dinner.” My keen eyes surveyed the scene, darting from the shards of a shattered biscuit jar to the absence of dust around a basenji-sized space on a shelf.

“Quite the fetching collection,” I quipped. Pierre’s laugh, albeit weak, acknowledged my wit.

After a meticulous trot around the block to get the lay of the land, I arrived at The Tail Wagger’s Tailor. It was there I espied a frenzied rustling in a pile of tweed for tiny trench coats. And who should emerge, flecks of thread clinging to his fur, but Watson—a beagle of some acquaintance, whose reputation for trouble surpassed his ability to sit and stay.

“Watson, old boy, what brings you amidst these fashionable felts?” I inquired, with a knowing tilt of the head.

His eyes darted nervously, an open book for one proficient in reading between the lines. With my observant gaze locked upon him, he folded faster than a pup’s ears in a headwind. “It was an itch,” he confessed, the words tumbling like kibble from a torn bag. “An itch for something shiny, something grand. I—I took the collar.”

“You’re in a tight collar yourself now, Watson,” I muttered, equal parts admonishment and sympathy. “Best to return the prize before the town hounds are unleashed.”

But redemption is a dish best served with a side of honesty; thus, I escorted Watson back to Pierre, where he coughed up the pilfered necklace.

A smattering of applause erupted from the passerby dogs at Cocker Courtyard—a sound almost as sweet as my human’s praise. Pierre, tears pooling in his spaniel eyes, couldn’t thank me enough. And as for Watson, let’s just say his penchant for tweed diminished considerably that day.

With the case closed, I sauntered over to Shiba Inlet, where the waves whispered secrets only a detective like myself could hear. Ah, but those are tales for another time, my dear readers. As the English bulldog Sassyfrass, draped in triumph like a cape of valor, let me bid you adieu from marvelous Pawsburg—until the next adventure calls. Keep your noses keen and wits sharper!

The End.