Hey Mom,

Just sleuthed my way through Spencerville’s latest toy-mystery—all in a day’s work for Detective Waffles! Found my voiceless Rainbow Star, ended up in a whirlwind of suspicions, but sniffed out the truth by dinnertime. Turns out, it’s not the squeaks in life but the love and laughs that count. Big tail wags and an even bigger heart! 🐾

Stay pawsome,
Wafflette

Listen to the story here

In Spencerville, where the warm light of everlasting summer never wanes, I found myself in the middle of an odd pickle. You see, life in this place is a banquet of sniff-stravaganza and tail-wagging soirées. But it isn’t all bacon-flavored parties in this canine Eden; sometimes, adventure bites you on the rump, particularly today, as I found myself unwittingly turned detective.

I had started the day with my usual saunter across Fawn Cream Maltese Meadow, when a rumpus arose by Pupperoni Pizza. It was the kind of ruckus that set ears perking and snouts a-snuffling. To be truthful, the detective life hadn’t chosen me as much as I tripped over it—quite literally, over a curious object in the bushes.

It was Rainbow Star, my beloved toy, but in this moment of reunification, there was a poignant twist; it was sullied, worse for wear, and most egregiously… squeakless. A toy without its voice is like a bark without its woof—troubling, to say the least.

Sniffing out the perpetrator behind this heinous act required my full faculties. But where to begin? The trail was as cold as a pup’s nose. Sleuthing, mind you, isn’t an exact science when you’re a Pomeranian more accustomed to romps in the park than a detective chase. With no other clues paw-present, I carried Rainbow Star close and ventured to where every creature in Spencerville gathered to chew over the news—The Wagging Tail Bookstore.

As conversation yipped and yapped around me, I spotted Oscar, nonchalantly flipping through a novel with his snout. “Oscar,” I said in the most nonchalant way I could muster, “ever seen a squeaker go missing?”

His mismatched eyes flickered with recognition, then sauntered in interest. “Waffles, every squeaker’s an inside job. Who would want to silence Rainbow Star?”

No suspects came to mind, not in a place where everyone’s tails wagged in unison. But from the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of that tabby, Squeaky, making tracks toward The Groom Room. Now, that whiskered character was one to watch.

Leisurely, I followed, Rainbow Star tucked beneath my sunshine coat as I pondered the possible motives. Envy? Revenge? A prank gone awry? The possibilities danced like the chime of dog tags in a breeze.

At The Groom Room, the scent of soap bubbles and aftershave wafted. Squeaky, freshly pampered, lounged by the exit. I trotted in and made a show of sniffing around. “Quite the riddle, this,” I declared, eyeing the tabby.

“You’re barking up the wrong scratching post,” Squeaky retorted coolly, and I had to admit, it was a possibility.

Then I thought about Cookie, the dapper tuxedo cat who could have orchestrated this debacle in his sleep. But the sight of him never straying far from his spot atop the kitchen chair swatted that theory away like a ball of yarn teetering off a table.

The day waned, and I felt the crease of my furry brow deepen. Amidst the twilight, I made my way to Bone Appetit, where the elegant clatter of bowls and the symphony of munching usually brought comfort.

It was then, under the garish glow of the Bone Appetit sign, I collided with the truth. My dear mom, who’d made Spencerville hum with her laughter, had left me Rainbow Star—and in his last squeak, a mystery to solve, a riddle that wrapped around my heart with the snugness of a hug.

There, the kindly old Labrador who ran Bone Appetit placed before me a steaming bowl of steak—that rich, glorious scent searing my senses and filling the gap left by my silent toy.

“My boy,” he said with a wise old nod, “sometimes squeakers have to go silent to let us hear what’s truly important.”

And so it was, with a belly full of steak and the subtle wisdom of Spencerville, I realized the squeak wasn’t the soul of Rainbow Star—it was the joy he brought, the games played, and the memories made, each and every squeak a stepping stone to understanding what makes this cozy corner of existence truly spectacular.

For every dog has its day, and this Pomeranian had his story—a tiny detective with a heart as grand as the mystery he’d unravelled. And through it all, I carried a snippet of solace; for in the murmurs of Spencerville’s endless twilight, the promise of reunion sparkles just beyond the horizon.

The End.