Yo, Mom! 🐾 Just wrapped another day as Pawsburgh’s tail-waggin’ detective. Thwarted a beagle burglar, saved some treats, and might’ve set him on a straight path. All in a day’s work for your son, the muscle with a nose for justice – and not to brag, but I’m also a treat-y pilfering prevention specialist now. Miss ya and love ya! 🐶❤️ – Meili (a.k.a. Fatness)

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So it goes in Pawsburgh, a place where us dogs solve our problems like Lassie on a good day, minus the timmy-fell-down-the-well drama. My name’s Meili, by the way, and I’m pretty much the unofficial mayor around here. I’m not exactly the brains of any outfit—I’ve got more muscles than a butcher’s shop window—but I’ve got a nose for trouble and a knack for unraveling it.

Just this morning, I found myself on Whippet Way, a winding stretch that could make a Greyhound dizzy, and that’s when the scent hit me. It was a whiff of something foul, a kind of criminal concoction. Crime in Pawsburgh isn’t like anywhere else, you see. We don’t have stick-ups or catnappings, but we do get the occasional treat heist or a case of the stolen squeaky toys. This smelled like the latter.

And who should I spot but a shifty-eyed Beagle making its way out of The Woofy Bakery, about as inconspicuous as a Great Dane in a poodle’s swimsuit. I trailed behind, keeping my steps softer than a whisper in a library. So there I was, tiptoeing after the perp, my belly doing somersaults of anticipation.

I must have given myself away with a pant or a tail swish because the Beagle bolted, dashing toward Basenji Bay with a speed that would make ol’ Johnny R. himself tip his hat in approval. Now, I’m not much of a swimmer, and I figured this four-legged bandit knew that. The bay is a pristine spot of water, clean enough to drink, if you don’t mind a bit of a fishy aftertaste.

“Hey friend,” I called, effort pumped into every bark, “there’s nowhere to go but into the water, and I think you and I both know that’s not your style.”

He halted at the edge of the dock, the sack of stolen goodies teetering precariously in his jaw. I could almost read his thoughts, and if dogs were betting types, I’d say he was considering a plunge.

“You don’t want to do that,” I warned. “That sack’s gonna get heavier than a bad secret in that water. Let’s talk this over, maybe at the Labrador Lunch. They’ve got those chewy sticks that last longer than regret.”

He eyed me—an eye so beady it should be illegal—and dropped the sack gently. I moved closer, but kept my distance, wary of a surprise move. We sat there, eying each other up like two boxers in a ring made of air.

Then he told me his tale, low and graveled like something caught between a growl and a confession. Apparently, the guy had a nose for Beagle Bagels, an addiction really, and when his owners tightened the old monetary leash, he had no choice but to turn to a life of petty crime.

“Don’t excuse bad behavior with sad stories,” I advised. “We’ve all got our sob tales. Why, I get ear cleanings so rough they’d make a cat sympathize. Let’s get you sorted out, maybe find you a job at Puppy Patisserie. You’ve got the nose for it.”

And just like that, the Beagle’s future was brighter than the glint off a fire hydrant on a sunny day.

I sauntered back to the dog park, my successful negotiation under my collar. It was all just part of the day for me, Meili, Pawsburgh’s answer to unsolved misdemeanors. I love this town, where every hound has a tale, and every bark’s got a bit of a bite if you listen close enough. But as the moon takes the sky and the hum of the human world fades, it’s just us dogs and our whispered adventures — until the next escapade calls.

The End.

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