Hey Grandma!

Guess what? I’m now Deputy Slobber, the town’s new hero! Today I solved my first case: finding Ms. Whiskers’ missing jewel-encrusted collar. Took some sniffing around Paws-A-Latte, but I cracked it! Who says chubby bulldogs can’t be detectives?

Love,
Fat Russell 🐾

Let’s get something straight from the outset: I’m Fat Russell, the chubby Bulldog, and today’s my first day as Deputy Slobber, serving and protecting Spencerville with the kind of valor you’d expect from a dog who’s more interested in a Philly cheesesteak than a chase.

The day began in the usual way. The sun had just climbed up over Golden Retriever River, splashing gold across Brindle Brown Boxer Beach. I was lounging on Grandma’s lap, half-oblivious to that infernal vacuum cleaner wailing in the next room. Morning serenity shattered when Wrigley, the big white mutt, burst in, all tails a’wagging and eyes a’shining.

“Russell! The chief’s called in,” Wrigley barked, panting like he’d run a marathon up Collie Canyon.

With a Herculean effort, I heaved myself off Grandma’s lap. The old gal just sighed, already missing my comforting bulk. The chief? This had to be crucial. Probably nothing less than a crisis at Yappy Yogurt or an emergency at The Pooch Playhouse.

I waddled my way to the Spencerville Precinct, a charmingly chaotic little hub beside The Bark Shak. Fenway the Bulldog was already at his post, looking like a dignified potato with legs. When I arrived, he shot me a look that mingled professional concern and that familiar Bulldog camaraderie.

“Glad you could finally make it, Russell,” Fenway said with a wink. “We’ve got a real doozy today. Collar crime.”

Now, Spencerville is not a place where one usually worries about nefarious activities. Where the most intense drama typically involves a rogue squirrel’s plotting, today’s apprehension hung in the air like an ill-placed brush at The Pampered Pooch Salon.

Sergeant Millie, the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, was already briefing the team.

“Listen up, we’ve had a report of suspicious activity,” Millie announced, pacing the room with the grace of a show dog and the sternness of a pack leader. “Ms. Whiskers’ collar—her prized, jewel-encrusted collar—has gone missing from Paws-A-Latte. We believe it’s been dog-lifted.”

Gasps rippled through the room. Ms. Whiskers, the feline diva one town over, was known for her treasure-trove of bling. That collar was her Mona Lisa.

“Deputy Slobber,” Millie’s eyes zeroed in on me, causing my ample jowls to quiver. “You and Wrigley are on this case. Head to Paws-A-Latte and find out what you can.”

Wrigley and I exited the precinct and trotted—well, he trotted, I lumbered—toward Paws-A-Latte. The clink of milk-bones and the hum of frothy lattes greeted us. The scene of the crime was chaotic, with the pug Spencer looking utterly dismayed, his eyes wide behind his tiny glasses.

“Deputy, you’ve got to help! The collar—vanished into thin air!” Spencer exclaimed, flapping a small paw dramatically.

“Calm down, Spencer,” Wrigley said, his tone as composed as an obedience school valedictorian. “Russell, you want to check the perimeter while I interview witnesses?”

“Sure,” I replied, my voice a mix of resolve and reluctance. Patrol duty? Not exactly my forte. Still, I complied, sniffing around the café’s boundaries, albeit more interested in the scent of bacon wafting from the back.

I had almost given up hope when something sparkly caught my eye near the dog-mat at the entrance. Buried in the sumptuous pile of chew toys was Ms. Whiskers’ missing collar, half-hidden beneath a blue Frisbee.

“Got it!” I barked triumphantly, seizing the rhinestone-adorned piece. Wrigley, his ears perked at my exuberance, rushed over to inspect.

“Good work, Deputy Slobber,” Wrigley said. “Looks like someone tried to stash it amongst the playthings. Very clever—but not clever enough for us, eh?”

I beamed, as much as a dog can beam, basking in the glow of our success. Wrigley’s praise felt like a bunch of Frisbees thrown my way—each more exciting than the last.

We returned the sparkling collar to Ms. Whiskers, who purred her thanks with a flourish. Another day, another case solved in the blissful hamlet of Spencerville. That night, basking by Golden Retriever River’s shimmering glow, I knew I’d done my bit for our quirky little town.

And as I settled into Grandma’s lap for my well-earned rest, my heart swelled—not just with pride, nor even a Philly cheesesteak—but with the contentment of knowing I was serving Spencerville, collar and all.

The End.