Hey there, it’s your friendly neighbourhood Sage! Busy again in Spencerville, tackling a tale as old as time where full moons, mournful songs and missing cucumbers intersect. Weaving my magic with wisdom from Tom, empathy from Lark, and my secret weapon – our beloved string ball. This peaceful pacifist turned detective is on the case! Do stay tuned. Best, The Golden Mystery Solver.

Listen to the story here

A gentle zephyr ripples across Fawn Cream Maltese Meadow and morphs into a whispering waltz amid Western Husky Hill, carrying with it the echo of a resounding mystery. Ah, yes. It’s another typical day in illustrious Spencerville and I, Sage, have been volunteered to unravel what is considered the ‘Case of the Mournful Moon’.

You see, there’s a rumour floating about in the wind, some recent wining at the full moon, a sorrowful canine serenade to the luminous orb. Unsettling, yes, that’s the word. A disruption in Spencerville’s idyllic serenity, an exciting mystery.

Martha – the town Baker synonymous with the scent of fresh sagebread – nudged me towards the riddle with the indulging alacrity of a tantalizing lemon cupcake. As I absorbed the soft buttery undercurrents under the tart lemon icing swirls, my intellect fired up. The peace-loving pacifist of Spencerville had somehow become a detective, eh.

My first inquiry, Tom. Stoic, wise Tom. A tortoise who had seen enough moons to hold an intimate chat with them. At Pup-Tastic Pizza, over a savoury slice of anchovy overload; I sought his counsel. His contemplative silence bore no quick answers. However, it wasn’t in vain. He introduced an angle on the missing cucumber slices from Bone Appetit’s summer salads. A source of ire, perhaps?

Lark, who always found solace in quiet too, shared the lament, a soft sorrowful note that gently echoed my own questions. Her trills at Whiskers and Wings held an invitation to consider the mystery with deeper empathy. But the noise, the incessant chattering, gave us leave, the pungent aroma of fishcakes offering little comfort.

Finally, after much thought, I realised how my ball of string, which had comforting human touch laced in its threads, held a key. Maybe, just maybe, the elusive canine troubadour missed a similar intimate token, a charming charm to soothe his sorrowful sobs.

My hypothesis came in the form of cucumber slices on the playful evening breeze. The mysteries of the mournful moon, a film reel of soft lullabies and missing cucumbers. All to be revealed on the morrow. Perhaps, under the golden hues of Spenville afternoons and comforting, noble silence of grass against paw, I’d find the answers. Yet until then, remember, not all sweet breads are mad of sage, not all mysteries are solved in a day, and not all golden retrievers are merely man’s best friend. Some are mystery solving, cucumber condemning heroes.

The End.