Hey Mom, just wanted to let you know I’ve been helping my human friends by sniffing out clues and spreading a bit of joy. Nothing major, just wagging my tail and making dreams come true. Hope you’re proud!
– Gremmi

The moon hung like a sleepy eye above Pawsburg, its luminescence touching everything with a silvery paw. I always loved these nighttime jaunts—a sleepy town transforms into a bustling hub of barking excitement. No humans in sight, just pure unbridled dog joy. It’s a secret every dog has loved to keep, and as Gremmi, a kind-of-bald-with-only-2-teeth chihuahua, I had a penchant for uncovering secrets and tales untold.

Tonight, however, wasn’t just about play. Trouble was paw-print deep, and Opal Pomeranian Park was our main crime scene, lit by fleeting fireflies and the occasional flicker of a tail. Rookie Cop Chico was my partner tonight. With his sable-colored fur and an empty eye socket, he had a charisma that belied his inexperience.

“I got wind of another one, Jose’,” Chico panted, his tail whipping the air. Pawsburg, usually filled with the scents of fried chicken delights and poutine aromas, now reeked of unease.

“The Paw Collector?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. Someone had been nabbing paws, trophy-taking from poor unsuspecting pups. The horror of it pinched my two teeth together like a frustration valve ready to let out steam.

“That’s the buzz,” Chico confirmed, sniffing around a park bench that glistened with dew and foreboding. “Buddies say Bark Buffet’s been quieter. It’s bad for business.”

We padded our way to the Bark Buffet, our noses working like seasoned sleuths. En route, Harrier Harbor echoed with the splashes of clandestine midnight fishing expeditions. I could see forms darting away, not wanting to be seen by cops on a mission.

“My mom thinks I’m just out for a nightly run,” Chico murmured as we entered the warmth of Doggie Diner, pausing for a water break. “But how can I tell her about this? All she’d say is to keep my tail tucked.”

“Your mom worries because she loves you,” I growled softly. “But we have a duty to keep Pawsburg safe, Chico. Even if it means facing the Paw Collector.”

By the time we reached Canine Comforts, the whole place had an air rife with speculation and gossip. We interviewed a Poodle who saw shadows and a Basset Hound with a keen sense of smell but little else to report.

“Paw Print Pottery Studio was the last known spot,” piped up an anxious Golden Retriever. “They found pawprints—lots of them. Clean ones and… others…” His voice trailed off, but the meaning clung to the air like morning mist.

“Pawprints, eh?” I led the charge, my tiny frame buzzing with the thrill of the hunt. The Pottery Studio always felt peaceful, creative—an unlikely place for horror to reside. Yet, tonight, its kiln-glow seemed sinister.

“Stay close, Chico,” I whispered as we slid past the door. Indents in the clay told stories of paws past, some elegant and some crude. The room was thick with the scent of pottery and pawprint evidence.

“Here!” Chico’s bark rang sharp. He pawed at a half-baked vase, revealing a stash of paws beneath. Each a monument to the perverse collector, each a silent scream etched into our memories.

Before we could react further, a shaggy, hunched figure emerged from the shadows. His eyes wild, teeth bared—a Shepherd mix known for selling exotic treats at Pup’s Poutine had turned rogue. He was the Paw Collector, his real name long forgotten in his madness.

In a blur of moonlight and motion, we tackled him, his snarl met with our determined barks. Opal Pomeranian Park’s fireflies witnessed everything, their glow turning the grim into a night remembered.

As we tied the rogue in a makeshift leash, I turned to Chico. “We’ve done it, Gremmi,” he said, his tail wagging now not with nerves but pride.

“All in a night’s sniff,” I replied. The moon quietly applauded as Pawsburg breathed easy once more. Off to tell the humans, they’ll never guess our adventures once the sun rises.