Hey Mom,

Just cracked my first case as Pawsburgh’s newest pet detective – Jaws the Bulldog, at your service! Turns out the eerie ‘Midnight Howl’ was just some cheeky pups and a radio – no ghosts, just grooves. Even the town’s most distinguished snouts didn’t see it coming. Sniff you later!

Hugs and head-tilts,
Jaws

Well, if Pawsburgh’s Amber Akita Alley could talk, it would tell you the day Jaws, the Old English Bulldog, turned detective was as unexpected as finding last week’s bone still perfectly buried. That’s me—Jaws, by the way. A dog known for my love of a good sniff around, with a snout that’s more reliable than the town’s five-day weather forecast. But never did I think I’d be tail-deep in the enigma that swirled around Pawsburgh like morning fog.

It all started one exceptional Tuesday morning. Or was it Wednesday? The days tend to blur when you’re your own boss, and the only appointments on your schedule are naps. I was on my routine trot to Fido’s Feast for a carrot-top platter when I caught a whiff of something unusual—an unfamiliar scent layered into the town’s usual bouquet of kibble and wet fur.

The smell led me to the Quartz Qimmiq Quarter, which was odd because one does not simply walk into the Quarter. It’s a place of feasts and festivities, not mysteries and musings. But here I was, a stoic Bulldog, about to snoop around like a beagle with a vendetta.

Strutting past the Furry Friends Art Gallery (where I once posed for a portrait that was more Dorian Gray than doggy dignitary), I followed my olfactory compass to Shar-Pei Shores. The scent was potent here, seeping out of The Barking Boutique. I nudged the door with my nose, which was as forthcoming with secrets as it was with freckles, and it creaked open to divulge what I was not expecting.

“Aha!” I exclaimed, though it sounded more like “Arf!” to any human passerby.

Tilly, a sprightly spaniel known for her taste in haute couture, was deep in conspiratorial natter with Fang, the Great Dane and Pawsburgh’s most notorious news-hound. They were discussing something between swift glances and hushed yips, every bit as cryptic as an unsolved riddle at a Sphinx convention.

“Well, Jaws, if it isn’t Mr. Bulldog bravado himself,” said Tilly, her voice a symphony of suspicion.

“Tilly, you’d lose your flair for drama at an opera house,” I snorted. “Now what’s this hush-hush kerfuffle about?”

“We’ve a caper afoot,” Fang murmured thoughtfully. “Ever heard of the Mystery of the Midnight Howl?”

I sat, my interest as stoked as the flames of my passion for carrots. “Sounds like a tall tale for puppies before bed.”

Fang leaned closer, breath reeking of Pawfect Pastries. “It’s no yarn, my friend. Dogs of Pawsburgh have been reporting eerie howls at the stroke of midnight. We think it’s a ghost.”

“A ghost?” I scoffed, envisioning Sniffer’s Sandwiches serving up ham and poltergeist paninis. “Oh, come now!”

But I couldn’t deny the prickling at the back of my neck fur, or the way the rubber ball in my thoughts had turned from playful bounce to a haunted roll. “Well then, consider this Bulldog on the case.”

That evening as night draped over Pawsburgh like a throw blanket over a snoozing terrier, I staked out my position. The full moon crested the sky, a glowing orb that could drive a werewolf wild with aspiration. Then, as the clock struck the witching hour, it came—a spine-chilling howl that turned my stout heart to jelly.

Creeping towards the sound, I found myself at the shadowy edges of Happy Hounds Dog Walking park. Another howl pierced the silence, but this time, I was ready. With my trusty rubber ball in mouth, I charged into the fray.

It wasn’t ghosts, oh no. It was a group of pups from Happy Hounds howling along to a radio left on by the human caretaker. Modern music, it seemed, was every bit as spooky as a spectral hound to the older generation.

The pups yapped with laughter at my arrival, and though I felt more sheepish than sheepdog, I played it cool. “Just checking the perimeter,” I lied through a mouthful of rubber.

And that was that. My first case as a pet detective, solved with a twist no one saw coming. Who says an Old English Bulldog can’t teach Pawsburgh new tricks?

But as I trotted home with a bounce as erratic as my favorite toy, I had to admit, there’s no place like Pawsburgh—and no detective quite like Jaws.

The End.