Hey Mom,

Just a quick bark from your son, Topo Gigio, Pawsburgh’s furriest detective. Cracked another case under the moonlight – the case of the purloined vest and the hair-hoarding heist. Turns out, the city’s secrets are safe once again, thanks to me and my tail-wagging team. Heading home for naps and ear scratches, but in the canine crime world, I’m a legend. 🐾

Keep the kibble warm,
TG 🕵️‍♂️✨

So it goes, with another yawning stretch and the clandestine click of the doggy door, I’m off. Pawsburgh awaits in the shroud of night’s last embrace, where the cobblestones sing of a thousand paws before mine. I’m Topo Gigio, though you know that already.

Dawn’s just a whisper, but in Chestnut Cocker Courtyard, time runs on the wag of tails, not ticks of the clock. Here, we dogs dare to dream beyond the leashes and the fences, beyond the narrow beds at our humans’ feet. Weimaraner Woods echoes with the mischief of the night, and I can smell it – the tang of adventure mixed with the rich scent of damp earth.

Before you can say “Who’s a good boy?” I’m hot on an intriguing scent trail, one that reeks of concealment and whispers of secrets kept in the shadows. It’s the calling card of the Pawsburgh Pawfia, a scent so pungent it could only be the stench of crime – Pawsburgh-style.

I pad along Whippet Way, a perfect mirror of my agile mind. The streets look like a tableau from an artist’s feverish dream, dotted with lamplight puddles that shiver like the aspirations of every dog who dares to trot here. Speaking of trot, there’s a rustle near Doggone Deli. Figures. Even the underworld needs to eat.

Entering Pawfect Pastries, I do it for the crumbs – clues, that is. And perhaps a whiff of their storied chicken quiche. The baker nods in silent respect. Huck and Millie should be meeting me here. They’re part of the unraveling yarn ball we call an investigation.

A dog wearing a trilby hat slinks in, nose quivering, senses sharp. Must be here for the Wagging Whisk’s special blend. But no one comes to Pawsburgh without a story, their fur matted with intrigue, and he’s no exception. I don’t trust him. He orders an éclair.

Then, the howler: a whisper of a heist, a pilfered prize. They say The Tail Wagger’s Tailor’s finest silk vest, embroidered with the history of Pawsburgh, has vanished into the night, thinner than a hound’s patience at bath time.

The plot thickens like peanut butter on the roof of your mouth, and it’s time I get sticking. Huck and Millie arrive, tongues lolling, the duo a reassuring presence like the feel of grass under my paws on a sprint.

The Dapper Dog Salon had a break-in, too. Nothing pilfered but fur clippings. Odd souvenir. But everything’s connected; in crime, like in chewing, follow the bits and pieces, and you’ll find the treat.

At The Wagging Tail Bookstore, the pages are whispering old secrets and new tricks. They talk about The Slobbering Don, head of the Pawfia, a Bulldog so sly he could hide a bone in plain sight and convince you it was your idea.

My mind’s a frisbee, flying from fact to fact with radical aerodynamics – this isn’t just about theft. It’s about power. The control of Pawsburgh depends on getting that vest back.

So we set a trap, as succulent as the drumstick that dreams are marinated in. The stage? Whippet Way. The bait? A leash. But not just any leash – the leash rumored to hold the key to the Pawsburgh’s secrets, weaved from the underfur of The First Dog, the myth, the legend.

The trilby-wearing mongrel takes the bait, and the leash leads us, ironically, straight to freedom. The vest found in his den, a poor match for his lousy look. “It was art,” he whimpers.

I tilt my head. Really? I cuff him with a paw. Huck and Millie bark the chorus. It was never about the vest or the fur or the ethereal leash. It was about the eternal dance between shadow and light.

As Pawsburgh’s sun crowns the horizon, and I hear my human’s stirring, I know what I must do. Jettison the vest back to The Tail Wagger’s Tailor, toss a wink at the baker, and stride through the door to the beat of the ordinary world’s awakening.

Back home, I’ll save the stories for dreamtime. My human will only see the wag of my tail, the sprawl of my paws. They’ll never guess the miles their pupper covers, the crimes unraveled. Each thud of my heartbeat, a silent pledge: Topo Gigio, guardian of Pawsburgh’s shaggy law and order.

The End.