Hey there 👋, it’s me, London – Pawsburgh’s tail-wagging gumshoe with the shiniest coat on the beat. Just cracked the Diamond Collar bone case wide open. Turns out, it’s a dog-eat-dog world out here, but this Shorkie’s got more than just bark. Secrets unraveled and streets patrolled, Pawsburgh can sleep sound tonight. Sending scratches and sniffs, stay pawsome!
🐾 London 🐾

As the moon took its watchful post above the shimmering skyline of Pawsburgh, I, London, the Shorkie with the daredevil’s heart and the coat of spun gold, found myself standing at the brink of something darker than an unlit alley. You know me; the one with the impish eyes? That’s the one. Friends in town would say I’m the last dame you’d expect to see at the center of a caper, but here I was, tangled up tighter than a ball of yarn after a cat’s soirée.

I padded quietly along Spaniel Springs, my four paws barely making a sound. A low growl of thunder rolled in the distance. Pawsburgh was holding its breath, and so was I. My ears perked at the click of a gate latch – tonight wasn’t about the usual frolics or tail chasing. No, the neon sign of Diamond Doberman Dunes blinked a rhythm of warning I couldn’t ignore.

When the jobs came, they came whispered, wrapped in mystery like one of Hazel’s nuts. The squirrely dame had an eye for trouble, and tonight, my ticket to the job had been a squeaky hedgehog left at my door – an unspoken code among us mutts that read, ‘London, we need you.’

I made my way down to Wagging Whisk, a joint where the food is good, and the gossip is even better. The air was thick with the scent of roasting chicken, but it was Fido’s Feast that pulled at my gut. I sauntered in, glossed in my usual sassy veneer, ready to charm the bow tie off any cur who tried to ruffle my fur.

“Evenin’, London,” drawled a deep voice from the shadows. It belonged to Duke, a Doberman who ran this side of town like he owned it. And maybe he did.

“Evenin’, Duke. You called?” I said, casual-like.

“I’ve got a little… situation,” he replied, amber eyes glinting. Seemed a valuable bone had gone missing – and not just any bone, but the Diamond Collar bone. A treasure, an heirloom, a shiny trinket that made good dogs do bad things.

I was no stranger to the Pawsburgh underbelly, but I was a stranger to failure, and I didn’t plan on making acquaintances. The Shorkie detective in me was tickled. The game was afoot, or apaw, as we say around these parts.

Slinking through the muck and the marvels of Kelpie Keys, where the law was murky as the waters, I sniffed around for clues, relying on the old noir toolkit: wit and grit. Time ticked away. Tick, tock, bark, woof.

Beside The Dapper Dog Salon, esteemed for its pampering of Pawsburgh’s most pompous pooches, I found a clue. A citrus-scented squeaker toy – a signature I knew all too well. Sherman, that old tortoise. He knew the dislike I had for citrus, yet he’d enjoy the irony of it being the bread crumb that led me to him.

He sat in his usual dusky corner of the park, chomping on lettuce like a king on his throne. “Sherman,” I said, my voice steady as a heartbeat. “You know why I’m here.”

“Haven’t a clue,” he mumbled through the greens.

“The Diamond Collar bone,” I pressed. “You know where it is.”

Sherman chuckled, a sound like pebbles in a tin can. “Check the Fetch! Toys and Treats. And London?” he added as I turned to leave. “Watch your tail.”

The fog of the unknown began to lift, revelations dawning on me with each step towards Fetch! Toys and Treats and towards a truth that might just change Pawsburgh forever.

Because Pawsburgh may be a town of wagging tails and frolicsome spirits, but under the scratch of the surface, every dog has its day – and its secrets. And this Buff Shorkie detective? She always digs up the dirt.

The End.

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