“Evening, partner! Saber here, your town’s resident sniffer, on the trail of the Great Peas Outrage and handling the chicken catastrophe around Western Labradoodle Lake. Undertaking the mysteries with my motley gang and a whiff of playful mischief, while squeezing past Ms. Collie’s duck embargo. Stay tuned for how this tale of tails unfurls. – The Ruffian Detective.”

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I ambled into Pawsburg, just as the sun was setting, casting long shadows over the playful houses. My paws brushed against the chewed-up ball nestled in the crook of my front legs—an altogether ordinary sight in this part-town, part-playground for sneaky dogs like me, Saber.

Ruff-n-Ready was just closing its shutters as I padded past. From the corner of my eye, I noticed duck pie wasn’t the special today. No surprise there—Mrs. Collie had been hoarding duck supplies lately. “The winter’s coming,” she’d say. Or perhaps she meant ‘a mystery’s coming,’ her bushy eyebrows arching in my direction.

Quicker than a greyhound—’quicker than Sergio,’ I fancied to myself—I picked up the scent. Chicken and rice, fresh from the barkers at Bark Burgers. The smell wafted my way like a classic noir leading lady—entirely irresistible, completely intoxicating, and dangerously enchanting. But as I ventured onward, something replaced the tantalizing aroma. My confidence waivered; I stopped just before I reached Western Labradoodle Lake.

The fusion of greens and vibrant oranges swirled together in a nauseating aroma that staggered me like a Mike Tyson right hook. Guilt, I thought. My tail twitched as it did when I was puzzling something. No, this was not guilt. Peas and carrots… The horror hit me as fast and unreservedly as a bag of bricks falling from a top shelf. Not on my watch.

The red brick shadows of The Groom Room weren’t far away. I had a hunch that my friends, Sergio, Daisy, and Mickey—graduates of mischief, mayhem, and banter from the Canine Academy of Practical Joker—were the culprits behind this disaster. As I neared the unlit entrance to Cream Maltese Meadow, I could hear their snickers already.

Disgust was a powerful motivator; peas were a terrible ordeal. But facts were facts, and the reality was that I was Saber of Pawsburg, the town’s sharp-witted Rottweiler. Armed with my investigative mind and fortified by rage against the undercooked peas, I was ready to solve the musical mix-up of the century.

“Open and shut case,” Daisy would say, tail wagging jauntily.

“I don’t like to brag,” Mickey would imply, a sly grin spreading across his face as he danced around the question.

And Sergio, well, he might just stand there in the corner, a subtle reminder of the solution I would eventually find in a trail of gravy and misplaced mirth. But for now, the only thing I knew for sure was that the mystery of the misplaced chicken—and the horrifying peas—had just fallen into the hands of Pawsburg’s resident investigator.

And let me tell you, ladies and gentlemen, I planned to make small work of it. My name, after all, is Saber. And vegetables? They didn’t stand a chance.

The End.

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