Hey Mom,

Just wrapped up another whirlwind day in Pawsburgh. Seems I’ve added ‘ghostly guardian’ to my detective résumé, keeping spirits in check between scarfing down chicken wraps and chasing down clues. The Midnight Whisperer has nothing on your Bearly Bear! Give my love to the fam – I’ll sniff you later!

Hugs and head pats,
Bear 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

As dawn unfurls her rosy fingers over the sleepy world of humans, in the quaint and curious town of Pawsburgh, the real adventure begins. My name is Bear, a cockapoo detective with a nose not just for scents, but also for mysteries. While the cats—specifically Junebug—might claim to have nine lives, I live a hundred within the stretch of a single day, all before my human flips her ‘Closed’ sign to ‘Welcome.’

My morning starts not with a jog, but a trot down Lhasa Lane, less for the exercise and more for the gossip; everyone knows that Lhasa is the Grand Central of canine discourse. As I weave through the crowd, scraps of conversation about miscellaneous chewed slippers and the enigmatic Squirrel Conspiracy abound. I don’t pay much mind to the latter, but the slippers case might need reopening.

I make my first stop at The Tail Wagger’s Tailor, where Sebastian, a dapper dachshund, stitches and bitches. “Bear, darling,” he drawls, handing over a freshly sewn cape the color of midnight whispers, “you spill more secrets than a pup spills kibble.” His words are playful, but his eyes hint at a hidden depth, like my red squeaky bone lost in the depths of a couch cushion.

Midday finds me at Pawprint Pizzeria, the only joint in town that can get my tail into an absolute tizzy without concocting a single whiff of beef jerky. Gino, the Great Dane who owns the place, leans in with his latest pepperoni-tales. “Strange things, Bear,” he rumbles, his voice a base note to the clattering of dishes, “Papillon Promenade’s got shadows that don’t belong to any dog, if you catch my drift.”

I do. Pawsburgh might be magical, but it’s newly haunted by echoes not of our world—phantom scents, invisible pawprints, and my next puzzle to piece together.

Onward to Whippet Wraps for an investigative snack where Stella, who whips the meanest chicken caesar wrap this side of the Kibble Kingdom, winks conspiratorially. “Looking for ghosts, are you?” she teases, her nose twitching with secrets. “Perhaps they’re looking for you.”

The sun hangs low as I saunter into Terrier Town, my investigation piqued. The terriers, ever enthusiastic, yap out a cacophony that could raise the fur on a statue. They spin tall tails of spectral sightings, but amongst the bedlam, a single bark rings clear—a clue that pulls me towards Papillon Promenade.

At dusk, the promenade is ethereally quiet. The shops cast long, contemplative shadows, beacons of familiarity that feel strangely alien under the contemplative gaze of the waning day. That’s when I hear it—a soft thrumming akin to a distant heartbeat. My mind races through the potentials as my legs carry me towards the sound, with the uncanny ability to tune out the unnecessary and focus on the curious.

I discover the source—a simple, nondescript box, humming with an otherworldly pulse, tucked beneath the bench by the Furry Friends Art Gallery. What mysteries do you hold within your cardboard confines? With a nudge of my snout, the flaps open to reveal—nothing. But the nothing swirls with a spectral dance, and whispers secrets only the night can hear.

The moon’s a silent sentinel as I guard the box until the illusion of daylight envelopes Pawsburgh once more. My humans never question my tired eyes in the morning; they don’t need to know that while they sleep, their loyal Bear keeps the phantom at bay.

The tale is simple: Bear of Pawsburgh—a cockapoo of curiosity and courage, a detective of the day and guardian by night, a lover of beef jerky, but most importantly, a friend to all, even to the friendliest of ghosts.

The End.