Hey Mom,

You won’t believe it – I’ve turned detective! Spencerville’s darker than a poodle’s curls, and I’m chasing villains from the Pug Palace to Labradoodle Lake. Just cracked the case of Barkley’s disappearance; turns out it involved chicken conspiracies and a missing collar. Keeping the peace with my sniffer’s intuition and a taste for justice. More stories to come!

Licks and wags,
Ace 🐾

I tell ya, in Spencerville, life’s a howl. Sure, it’s a place where we wag tails instead of woes, but don’t let the fire hydrants painted like candy canes fool ya; this canine utopia’s got its underbelly. And me? I’m Ace, a Yellow Lab with a nose for trouble and a heart of kibble-gold, sniffing through the alleys of intrigue and chasing down the tails of crime.

So there I was, sprawled across my favorite sunspot on the porch of the Pug Palace. Caffrey was soaking up the rays too, trying to look nonchalant, but I could see the twitch in his tail. He was nervous, and I could smell it – smelled like the leftover Pup-Peroni from last night’s shindig.

“Okay, spill it,” I barked quietly, aware of the eyes on us – the snooty types from The Snooty Snout Boutique, always sniffing for a scandal.

“It’s Barkley,” Caffrey whispered, referring to the boss of the Paws-A-Latte chain, a Chihuahua with the kind of bite that left a mark in the memory foam beds we all dreamed about.

“What about him?” I asked, one ear perking up as a diversion.

“He’s missing,” Caffrey’s whisper was almost inaudible now. “Gone since Tuesday. And Tuesday’s the day he collects the protection treats from the shop owners.”

Missing? Barkley? Shoot, that could stir up a kibble storm the size of the Lower Dalmatian Desert. Without him, there’d be a power vacuum, a free-for-all for the top dog spot. In my head, the gears were turning, fast as the tennis balls shot from automatic launchers.

“And what’s the word on the dogwalk, Caff? Any leads?” I queried, my tail sending Morse code signals of distress to any canine wise enough to decipher.

“Rumor’s got it,” he hedged, “that the Furrific Fried Chicken’s been short on their protection treats. They might’ve had a paw in his disappearance.”

I frowned. This smelt worse than a pile of yesterday’s diapers on a hot day. I rose from my spot, stretches disguising my urgency, and made for the Labradoodle Lake to clear my head. The place was a sanctuary for many a furry soul, a place where secrets are told to the ripples and kept by the lily pads.

But lakeside contemplation would have to wait. I needed to visit the hen house of suspects, and there was no time for dilly-dallying. Softly, I started off, my mind as focused as a cat on a laser point, which is saying something in our circles.

I approached the Furrific Fried Chicken, sauntering to avoid arousing suspicion. Last thing I needed was a cluck-and-run. I nosed through the door like I belonged there, like I was just another hungry hound, not the Sherlock Bones of Spencerville.

The scent hit me – greasy, guilty, gamey. There was something fowl afoot.

“Can I help ya?” clucked Cloe, the head hen, her feathers ruffled, her composure an eggshell away from cracking.

“Word in the alley is Barkley’s vanished,” I said casually, leaning on the counter, “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would ya, Cloe?”

Her beady eyes widened, and for a moment, I thought she might squawk. But she played it cagey, smoothing her apron with a wingtip.

“Why, no,” she lied, as smoothly as a slobber on a tennis ball, but with an aftertaste of deception. “Barkley’s a dear friend of ours. We would never do anything to ruffle his feathers.”

“Uh-huh,” I muttered, scanning the joint. Amidst the bawk and roll of the chicken shack, a detail stood out – there, nestled behind a jar of pickled pig ears, was Barkley’s telltale collar, as conspicuous as a cat at a canine choir practice.

I eyed Cloe with enough suspicion to make her molt.

“Well, it seems to me,” I said, tapping the jar with my paw for effect, “that dear friend Barkley might’ve left a piece of himself behind.”

Cloe’s face blanched like the breast of the chickens she served, and in that moment, I knew I’d cracked the case. There’d be consequences. Meetings would be held at the Paws-A-Latte and offers put forward that no one could refuse – but with a side of justice, served as cold as the nose on your face.

Busted, Cloe sang like a canary about a misunderstanding over a meaty bone and a deal gone bad. Barkley was found, hiding out near Labradoodle Lake, too chicken to come out of the bushes.

The sun dipped low, flickering off my yellow coat, as I once again took my place on the Pug Palace porch. Caffrey nuzzled next to me, share of the reward treats firmly in his mouth. For a moment, all was right in our nearly perfect world. But I knew it was only a matter of time before another case dropped into my lap, as surely as drool from a Mastiff’s jowls.

In Spencerville, life was an eternal game of fetch – you chased down the truths, sometimes you caught them, sometimes you lost them, but the game always goes on. And me? I’m Ace. Regardless of ear cleanings, baths, or disdain for veggies, I’m the dog for the job. Okay, so maybe I don’t do it for the belly rubs… but, hey, I never turn one down either.

The End.