Hey Mom and Dad 👋,

Just a quick update from your detective daughter! I’ve turned into a regular Sherlock Bones here in Spencerville. Scooby-Doo’s got nothing on me! 🐾🔍 I led my pug pals on a wild chase after the great Doggy Donut Disappearance today. Followed our noses (and a few suspect paw prints) from Shih Tzu Stadium all the way to Chihuahua Castle, and even had a chat with the sly Whiskers O’Malley! 🐱 We’re hot on the trail, and it seems the bulldog with the fancy trousers might just crack the case wide open for us. Don’t worry, nothing’s too ruff for Jasmine the pug—err, I mean, your Little Jazzy. I’ll keep you posted!

Sniffs and licks,
Little Jazzy 🐶💖

Listen to the story here

Now, I reckon you’ve heard tell of the peculiar happenings down yonder in Spencerville—a place nestled ‘tween liminality and eternity, where the sun doth perpetually shine on the sleek coats and wagging tails of its inhabitants. Yours truly, Jasmine the pug, esteemed adventurer and resident sleuth, finds herself plum in the middle of a most confounding mystery.

It was as fine a mornin’ as any, when the winds of fate carried within them whispers of disarray, the likes of which had scarcely ruffled the serene tapestry of Spencerville. A peculiar affair had taken hold at Shih Tzu Stadium, one that set my paws to tappin’ with the irresistible itch of intrigue. You see, the renowned Doggy Donuts—confectionaries bound to make a pug forget her manners—had vanished clean into thin air, leaving in their stead a trail of crumbs and dismay.

My band of pug companions, fast as you could say “fetch,” was assembled by my side. Pahoehoe with her nose to the ground, Dotty’s whiskers twitching, and Percy, well, Percy was mostly concerned with the whereabouts of his next snack, but his heart, bless him, was in the right place. As for me, the olfactory prowess of a bloodhound ain’t my particular forte; I fancy it’s the sharp wit minted between these floppy ears that sets this canine apart from the pack.

We perambulated toward Retriever River, where Earl, the size of a small horse and the temperament of a daisy in the gentleness of dawn, produced a clue as substantial as his girth—a muddy paw print, as off-kilter as a hiccup.

“Why, Miss Jasmine,” the astute fallback pug Earl fancied himself to be, “do you reckon this to be the crux of our unsavory dilemma?”

I regarded the misshapen print with a gaze as steady as a captain’s at sea. “I might, dear Earl, should curiosity lead us down the path of understanding rather than, say, one scattered with capricious leaps.”

“Tarnation,” muttered Dotty. “A paw in the mud is as good as a signpost pointin’ to who-done-it.”

Not one to dash hopes, I harnessed the enthusiasm. “To North Chihuahua Castle we direct our query, where perhaps more breadcrumbs—or, perchance, doughnuts—await our discovery.”

Upon the polished floors of the castle, amid the opulence of this canine Camelot, we found naught but echoes. Yet, inside The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium, a scuffle had clearly transpired, as evidenced by toppled cat trees and disheveled toys.

A figure emerged, sleek as sin, from the fray—a cat with a gaze that could curdle cream, named Whiskers O’Malley, known to peddle information as a fletcher deals arrows.

“Speak plainly, Whiskers.” I proffered a coupon for Fur Tacos, for even the most furtive creatures have their price. “What spectacles did your eyes befall amongst these fray-tattered aisles?”

With a flick of his tail, as cryptic as the Sphinx, he spoke, “The bulldog, he with the underbite like an unkept hedge—seen ‘im with paws as deep in dough as a miner in a gold rush.”

A wrinkle formed upon my brindle brow. The bulldog, a known frequenter of The Tail Wagger’s Tailor, was a dapper gent yet prone to fits of hunger-induced desperation.

“Lend ears and lift your paws from the mire,” I counseled my crew, “for yon canine in sartorial splendor may very well hold the key to this conundrum betwixt his jowls.”

And so, with a hearty spirit and a pocketful of intrigue, we set forth with pugnacious vigor to unravel the yarn of missing Doggy Donuts—the fabric of our community depended on it.

As twilight descended, casting crooked shadows ‘cross the cobbled streets of our hallowed Spencerville, we fancied ourselves closer to us mere breaths from the scent of resolution. For Jasmine the pug, no shroud of mystery too dense, no lead too slender, was left unfollowed.

In the telling of tales, it’s the journey that stitches significance into the fabric of the narrative. Thus, armed with loyal comrades and an unquenchable thirst for adventure, off I trotted, ever toward truth and reunions long yearned for—into the enveloping arms of a story as yet unwoven.

The End.