Hey there, just wrapped up another tail-waggin’ tale of triumph in Pawsburgh. The day’s victory? Returned Lady Eleanor’s collar after unveiling a wiener dog’s excessive penchant for fashion thievery. Sunrise to sunrise, my poodle prowl and detective snout keep peace in our secret dogtopia. Now, back to our human world for a well-deserved treat and nap. Fantails of our furry feats to follow. 🐾 – Detective Curls 🕵️‍♂️🐩

Listen to the story here

In the dusky wink before sunrise, when the world’s hullabaloo dozed off, I, Mickey O’Malley, a standard poodle sleuth with more curls than a French patisserie, would often beguile my way out of Widow Jenkins’ tender clutch and into the clamor of canine caper — Pawsburgh, the land of dogged antics and mystery.

Pawsburgh was a place that adhered to a silent bow-wow vowed by every dog who crossed its invisible borders. It was our secret, our Utopawdia. I remember this in particular as I trotted toward Rottweiler Ridge, the hum of a case hanging in the air like the scent of a meaty bone. It was a quiet day, save for my company; a tennis ball with more bounce than most conversations I’d been a party to.

The trouble afoot had found its echo through the fresh whispers of Willow Creek, arriving as a hushed urgency on the muddy banks where I was often a solitary figure, combing over clues with the tenacity of a flea on a dog show champion. It was my friend, Lady Eleanor of the Bernese Mountain, who had come to me—a jewelry heist at the heart of Jade Jack Russell Junction, her precious collar now missing.

My ears perked as I heard her approach, and not a moment too soon. “Mickey,” she boomed, her voice as deep as her heart was large, “I am beside myself!”

“Pray, sit, lady,” I invited, tail wagging at a respectable, sympathetic frequency. “We shall peel away the layers of this canine caper like an onion, tears included if need be.”

Onto the Spitz Spire we climbed, an ivory tower pricking the sky, standing sentinel. From this vantage, one could see all manner of clandestine canine hobnobbery and the perfect spot, hypothesized I, to spot a thief.

Benny the Blaster, with a wit as sharp as the twinkle in his terrier eye, joined our noble ensemble, running circles around the less gleeful notion of crime. “Seen anything suspicious, Benny?” I barked.

“Only the price of salmon treats at the Canine Cafe,” Benny replied, his grin daring his whiskers to keep up.

Time, however, was a luxury not afforded to a dog with a nose for the truth. Not when the scent was as ripe as the fish in our favorite treats. Our paws led us down into the hubbub where Pawsburgh’s daily grind spun its yarn.

It’s at The Tail Wagger’s Tailor that I found the clue—a thread, shimmering and out of place amongst the woofs and weaves of everyday attire.

A hunch, a sniff of something foul in the air, and we darted to the Puppy Patisserie. It was there, amid the glaze and glory of canine confection, that we cornered our collar kleptomaniac—a wiener dog draped in what he best described as “an overindulgence in fashion accessories.”

“Paws up, you dastardly dachshund!” I exclaimed, my paws firm and my stance majestic.

Humbled by the evidence wound around his wee waist, the villain confessed. The collar returned to its rightful neck, Lady Eleanor nuzzled me with a gratitude hefty enough to knock over a less seasoned sleuth.

As the sun peeked over Pawsburgh, casting a golden hour where every fur shone bright and every bark sounded merry, there we stood—a fellowship of four-legged friends, mending the day’s broken tail wag.

Widow Jenkins never did wonder about the jaunty spring that returned with me at breakfast. Nor the tales, I would tell her over scratches behind my ears, knowing full well she humored my wild imagination. Little did she know, they were as true as my love for the thrill of the chase and the loyalty of my companions at Pawsburgh.

The End.

Share This Story: