Hey Mom and Dad,

I’ve become the unlikely hero of Pawsburgh, sniffing out a mystery that has our neighbors vanishing into thin air. With Mya by my side, we’re facing our fears, a rogue mirror, and chasing the truth behind Millie’s disappearance. Think Sherlock Holmes meets Lassie in a twisty tale. I’m equal parts terrified and determined, but rest assured, Pawsburgh’s got nothing on your Bella Baby Girl. 😉

Love and paw prints,
Bella Baby Girl

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In the soft-lit ward of my dreams, I am gazing at the stars alight against the velveteen sky of Pawsburgh. Beyond the picket fence of wakefulness, I coast on the zephyrs of slumber, only to land, as always, on the cobbled path of Ruby Rottweiler Ridge.

It begins, as it does on any other eve, with a whisper, a hushed call to adventure—or so you would think if you’re not privy to the underlying disquiet—rippling through the tranquil streets of our clandestine town.

I, Bella, keeper of stories and bringer of smiles, stray beyond the familiar gravel of trust. Mischief in my eyes; the ‘Funky Skunk’ under my 13-inch stature; heart thrumming a quiet symphony of dread. They say fear is the little death, and I live a thousand in the span of a heartbeat.

The air smells of deceit, for gone are the aromatic wafts of Pawprint Pizzeria and the sugary notes from Barker’s Bakery. Tonight, they are replaced—an olfactory illusion—by the scent of rotten pumpkin dog treats, a smell so vile, one which rouses me not from sleep but into a deeper coil of this somber dreamscape. I find the streets barren; the boisterous camaraderie of Paw-tisserie’s clientele, now a memory … or a premonition.

My padded feet carry me, of their own accord, to the mysterious glow of Dachshund Dale, where the shadows seem to whisper secrets, tales of dogs vanishing into the night, leaving behind naught but the faintest trace of their scent.

“A psychological predicament, it is, when you’re a pocket Beagle in a world crocheted of suspicions.” So I mull, snout to the ground, sniffing out the enigma. It’s Mya the Pit Bull, my upright ‘Best Friend’ and ‘Niece’, who meets me there, her eyes wide with silent alarms.

“You’ve seen the signs, Bella,” she utters, barely a growl. But the Vizsla Valley waits for no pup, and neither do clues. Together we traipse, phantoms on a trail laid by the unseen, chasing Millie’s ghostly barks through the yawn of the night. Great Pyrenees, she, a snowy specter in the margins of reality.

The Groom Room flickers in the distance, a harbinger of tales untold. Ever notice how you can trust a dog to guard your house but not your ham sandwich? That’s unsettling enough, but to entrust your reflection to the rogue mirror within? It smacks of a more insidious threat.

Mya and I approach, pelt-prickling, as a shadow unfolds in its silvery gaze, our own reflections twisted in ways nature never intended. An ambush of a different kind. The city’s hustle is nothing compared to this, where nature’s embrace turns suffocating. Bedlam lies not in the screech of traffic but in the mirror’s cruel distortion.

Thunder cracks; the sky splits. Not in the heavens above, however, but in the faulty seams of the once-tranquil Pawsburgh. Mya flees—a dash of bravery wrapped in primal fright.

“I am not afraid,” I lie to myself, the sour taste of an apple on my tongue, the squish of watermelon a psalm to the chaos.

A figure steps forth, Millie, drenched in moonlight, bearing a twisted version of ‘Funky Skunk’. It dawns upon me then—trust not the open water nor the dog you know but the depths you fear to tread, for therein lies the true grand adventure of our minds and the psychosis woven inside.

And so I stand, paws planted as my town morphs into the arena of a psychological skirmish. I quiver, but stand I do, ready to face the mirror, the storm, and the twisted tales of Pawsburgh. For I am Bella, a constellation of contradictions—a harmony of courage and trepidation, and the champion of my own serene, yet thunderous, epic.

The End.

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