Hey Dad,

Cracked “The Case of the Vanishing Vittles” today. Turned out, Spencerville’s snacks were swiped by a spectral snack-snatcher! After sniffing out clues and tailing crumbs, I pinned down the phantom pilferer and saved our treats. All in a day’s work for this canine sleuth. Shedding light on shadowy secrets, one bagel at a time. 🐾🔍

– Test Dog

Listen to the story here

Chapter One: The Case of the Vanishing Vittles

It was a brisk day in Spencerville, the kind where the wind whispers secrets as it ruffles the feathers of the waiting willows and skims across the cool, clear brook by my humble abode. I sat contemplating the enigma of the universe—or perhaps just the next delectable morsel that might find its way into my bowl—when I caught the faintest whiff of something amiss in the air. It wasn’t the bitter tang of citrus, the nemesis of my culinary preferences. No, this was a scent laced with mystery and the unmistakable aroma of…adventure.

With a stretch and a shake that sent shimmers through my midnight coat, I embarked upon my daily patrol through Lower Golden Gate Gardens, my paws treading a familiar path worn through fields of unending fun. It’s not every day you’re dubbed the town’s best, albeit self-appointed, paranormal investigator, but then again, not every dog has a twinkle in their eye that rivals the North Star for sheer mischief.

It was somewhere between the oak that looked like it might get up and tango if you squinted hard enough, and Bella’s favorite birdbath—where she composed her dawn chorus—that I stumbled upon my first clue. The Doggy Bagel Deli stood silent, its usual line of drooling patrons conspicuously absent. An echoing emptiness hung around the place like a bad haircut on a poodle.

A mutter of discontent came from behind the closed door. I nudged my way in with my nose, expertly as any safecracker on two legs, and found the proprietor, a bulldog by the name of Burt, staring forlornly at an array of empty plates. The air was still rich with the scent of everything poppy seed and sesame, but not a morsel remained.

“Test Dog,” Burt addressed me with a deference seldom shown outside of epic sagas or after a particularly spirited game of fetch. “It’s a catastrophe of canine proportions. Every bagel has vanished!”

Fear not, fair reader, for I am not one to shrink from a challenge, bucolic or otherwise. I immediately commenced a snout-to-ground inspection, pausing only to sneeze at an errant feather. It was then, in a stroke of insight only a dog with a penchant for the inexplicable could muster, that I recalled Charlie’s ominous mewing from the night before: “The spirits are restless, and they’ve got the munchies.”

I dispatched myself forthwith to the feline oracle atop his fence. But as I approached, I found no signs of our local sage. In his place was a cryptic scrawled note: “Follow the crumbs, trust the wag.”

Crumbs? Preposterous! I uttered a snort of derision. I have lived a thousand doggy days and never once seen a pet afraid of a good morsel, let alone one that would merely nibble and abandon ship. Nonetheless, the game was afoot, and with the gusto of a pup presented with a patchwork ball, I set out to unravel this delicious mystery.

With only my wits and the lingering scent of everything bagels, my investigative journey saw the sun dip below the horizon, painting Spencerville in hues of purples and oranges—a twilight palette for a twilight detective. And there, under the benevolent gaze of the Choco Chihuahua Castle, I found them: crumbs leading to the heart of the mystery, and perhaps to a reunion with my savory snack-seeking specters.

I shall spare you the intricate details of paw prints and playful barking that followed, the discoveries and the derring-do. Suffice to say, the journey involved hidden tunnels beneath Pooched Potatoes and an interdimensional bagel-thief who nearly gave me cause to use the word ‘abductee’. But as any good denizen of Spencerville would attest, no phenomenon is too strange, no tale too tall, when you’re waiting to be reunited with the ones you love.

And as for Charlie the cat and the rest of my motley crew, well, they were part of the plan all along, each playing their role in the waggish interlude that would go down in Spencerville history as “The Case of the Vanishing Vittles.”

So here I sit, sphinx-like, devouring the last of the recovered bagels, a reward fitting for a rogue of my distinction. Charlie nods sagely from his perch, and Bella’s song carries on the dusk breeze. We’re all stories in the end, as they say. Best make it a good one, with a side of schmear.

The End.