Hey pal,

Case closed in Pawsburgh; the Squeaker’s back where it belongs. Played a game of chicken with Rowdy the Rott – I won, obviously. Crime’s got nothin’ on this nose. Meet me at Pointer Pier for the sunset and tales hotter than a fresh pizza on the windowsill.

– The Snout Sherlock, Creed

In the noir-soaked corners of Pawsburgh, where the streetlights cast long shadows and the fire hydrants are always polished, I find myself striding along Bichon Boulevard with a purpose that rattles the dog tags under my collar. You know me – Creed – the pitbull with a coat like the dying day and a heart beating a jive for life.

But today isn’t about revelries or raucous car rides chasing the sunset. No, today I’m tail-deep in the dog days of detective work, snout-first in a mystery that would ruffle the fur on any lesser pup. The famed Squeaker Toy – “The Siren’s Squeak”, they called it – had vanished from The Snooty Snout Boutique, and the scent of intrigue was as palpable as the stench of wet fur after a rainstorm.

I arrive at the scene, the sun warming my back, a welcomed contrast to the chill of crime in the air. I spot Marbles, my bouncy Jack Russell contact, waiting outside, her eyes darting like minnows in a pond. “Creed, thank heavens you’re here,” she pants. A yapster she is, and oh, how she wears it like the bow in her fur.

“Spill it, Marbles,” I urge. “I have a sunbeam at home with my name on it, and you’re standing between me and its warm caress.”

She delivers the lowdown. The Squeaker Toy got nabbed during the high-noon hustle, the thief a wily shadow that slipped through paws like silky threads through a needle.

Leaning against a streetlamp that’s seen more dog years than most, I ponder. This job needs a nose, a set of peepers, and a dollop of grey matter. Good thing I’m packed with plenty.

So, I make for Doggie Diner, the sort of joint where secrets spill like kibble from an overeager pup’s maw. My friend, a Sheepdog named Woolworth, slings hash there. He’s a mop with a mouth, our Woolworth.

“Saw a shifty-looking mutt bolt from ‘Snooty’ with something squeezed tight in his jaw,” Woolworth sputters amidst slinging hash browns. “Headed towards Doberman Dunes.”

I thank him with a pat and a promise to share a chicken bone someday, and then it’s off to face the dunes.

Could take hours, schlep across the sands of Doberman Dunes. But not for Creed. See, I catch wind of the toy’s distinct squawk in a beat, a familiar tune in a sea of bland notes.

Eureka. There, hunkered down like a crab in a beanbag, is the thief – none other than Rowdy, the Rottweiler with a rap sheet as long as the leash law. But there’s something about his wag – doesn’t match the bravado. I nose in closer, and it hits me: He’s just scavenging, like a pup who thinks the shiny chew toy is a bone.

“We can do this the easy way, or the way that involves a lot more barking,” I mutter, knowing words are wind to the likes of Rowdy.

He growls, a low rumble that would send shivers down a mailman’s spine. The sandy showdown could go south faster than a greyhound on a racetrack, but I stay planted, my eyes locked on his.

Then it’s just like that – a dance of dominance, a game of chicken, until he submits, plopping down The Siren’s Squeak and slinking away with a snort.

The case is as cold now as the nose on my face, just how I like ’em. I return the toy to the boutique, earning a lick and a promise of a discount on chicken treats. I head to Pointer Pier, to share the news with my pals and to find that one serene spot where the water whispers and I can bask, just bask, under the kiss of the sun.

And so, another day unfolds and folds up again in Pawsburgh – a place that owes a little of its peace to Creed, and Creed, well, he owes a lot to Pawsburgh.

The End.