Hey fam,

Just a heads up from your ‘Little Man’ in Pawsburgh. Turns out I’m moonlighting as a furry detective sniffing out a catnip conspiracy that’s got the whole town’s tails in a twist. Imagine me, eye-patching it like a pirate, outwitting kitties, and saving our barking utopia. Who knew one eye could see so much drama? 😎🐶 I’ll keep you posted if I manage to keep the peace without missing any naps.
Wish me luck!

XOXO,
Baxter 🐾✨

In the far-fetched corners of a secret canine commune known as Pawsburgh, I, Baxter, found myself embroiled in an escapade that would make my tail curl with intrigue if it wasn’t so perpetually pleased to see anyone friendly—which, in Pawsburgh, was everyone.

One eye might seem a handicap, but in Pawsburgh it was more of a conversation starter at Retriever’s Restaurant, where I’d enjoy chicken par excellence. There are no strangers here, only friends who haven’t sniffed each other yet. You’d think a town for us barkers would be frantic, but it’s calm, an antidote to the two-legged world’s cacophony—with the exception of the occasional chihuahua chimichanga fracas.

It was a Thursday, or so they say (we dogs have little use for calendars). I had just licked clean a bowl at Paw Pad Thai when I overheard, through the symphony of slurps and satisfied howls, a rumor as unsavory as broccoli. Someone was peddling catnip right there on Whippet Way.

Now, I must admit crime doesn’t usually pique my interest, I’d rather spend my days sunbathing. But this, this was different. The catnip caper could mean a flop for the great Pawsburgh dream, and I couldn’t nap through that—not on my watch. Well, if I wore a watch.

I sauntered to the Barking Boutique, my one good eye scanning for clues, for tails of the guilty. Suspicion doesn’t sit well in our bellies, you see, much like that dreaded green miniature tree masquerading as food on our plates.

“Hey, Baxter,” the husky running the joint greeted me with a wink, a wag of acknowledgment from one rogue to another, “here to sniff out a new collar?”

“Came to chew the fat—and not just because it’s delicious.” I grinned, revealing the whites. The husky chuckled, a sound like boulders in a tumbler.

“Here ’bout the nip ring?”

“How could I not? It’s got more buzz than the Beagle Brothers on double espresso.”

The husky lowered his voice, “It’s the kitties, Baxter. They’re muscling in on Whippet turf. And I hear the leader’s got more lives than… well, you know.”

I shivered. Cats were notoriously slippery, like a wet bath after a mud-roll—unpleasant and impossible to hold onto.

With my lead, I trot-footed it to Weimaraner Woods, on the edge of Pawsburgh. The place had an air of mischief, like a shoe left unguarded.

Discretion is key in reconnaissance. I kept to the shadows, which isn’t easy when you’re as fetching as I am. I perched behind a shrub, as still as a porcelain figurine on a rich lady’s mantel.

And that’s when I saw her. A Siamese broad, moving with the liquid grace that spelled trouble in bold, underlined twice. The sight could freeze the blood of any dog worth his salt lick.

I backed away, my pawsteps silent, my mind racing faster than puppies at playtime. I needed to alert the big dogs of Pawsburgh. There was a summit tonight at Retriever’s.

Like any good novel, the plot thickened to a vehicular traffic consistency as the canine capos convened. The air was thick with the scent of gravitas and meatballs. Whispers circled, theories tossed around like balls in a dog park.

“It’s an inside job,” growled a Schnauzer with a silver beard.

A Poodle, coiffed to the nines, nodded. “We must act, for the honor, the very essence of Pawsburgh!”

The plan was as complex as a belly rub: offer a fake stash of nip, set a trap, and snatch the culprit. A sting that’d make the bees jealous.

So here I am under the pale moon, waiting in Quartz Qimmiq Quarter, a hero in a half-fur cape. The Siamese is bound to appear and when she does, I’ll be there—with a wag and a wink, and a plan that’s foolproof. Or as foolproof as any plan can be in a world that’s all tail-chasing and tongue-lolling.

Crime in Pawsburgh? Pawsible, but not on my nap-time watch.

The End.