Hey Mom 🐾,

Cracked the case of the stolen Liver & Chicken Pâté Pie at Woofy Bakery! A Dalmatian with an itchy back was the pie-napper! 😂 Made a righteous replacement pie and saved the Pawsburgh Pie Contest. Just another day for your star detective, Angel. 🕵️‍♀️💕

Tail wags and triumphs,
Itty Bitty 🐶✨

I huffed, my gray coat shimmering like a stormcloud in Pawsburgh’s morning light, ears perked for any whiff of mystery. I wasn’t just any old tail-wagger; I was Angel, the detective of Blue Basenji Bay, and today the bay whipped up more than just waves.

“A caper at the Woofy Bakery,” Jack, the rat terrier and informant of sorts, yapped as he skidded up to me. “Someone’s made off with the prized Liver & Chicken Pâté Pie!”

I pondered the gravity of the situation, tasting the salty sea breeze, nearly missing the tang of stolen pastry. “Was it cleverly purloined? Or an act of gastronomic desperation?” I mused aloud.

Jack’s shrug could have unsettled fleas. “Who knows? But you’re the sleuth with the nose for it.”

The bay, curiously quiet, didn’t have its usual bark about it. The word was out; there was a thief amongst us. Sleek and lightning-quick as my namesake, I troted to the Woofy Bakery, where the air was thick with despair and yeast.

Mrs. Paws, the plump Golden Retriever behind the counter, wailed into her apron. “It was absolute art, Angel! Baked with love, and snatched without a trace. Without it, the Pawsburgh Pie Contest is ruined!”

Rubbing my chin thoughtfully – an art I’d perfected for dramatics – I surveyed the scene. The showcase gleamed emptily, the space where the pie should have been, echoed the hollowness of Pawsburgh’s collective stomach. A mystery, indeed.

My paws itched; I’d solve this case, for pride, for justice, for the chance to be the hero. “Fear not,” I declared, tail stiff with determination, “I’m on the case.”

At Spaniel Springs, I interviewed the locals. Bear, the big-hearted Bernese, knew naught, and Jasper, the pug, sadly shook his head. They were as clueless as cats at a canine quiz.

Then, an almost inaudible yip caught my attention. Briard Bridge, often a quiet spot, became the stage for clues. I found a smudge of crust, a spot of cream—a trail of crumbs leading me onward. I’d read about such breadcrumbs before; it was the stuff of Pratchett, magical and leading to…

The Groom Room, where the most unlikely of suspects, a Dalmatian named Dot, was caught with a curiously crusty collar.

“Dot, darling, is there a reason your collar’s cosplaying as a side dish?” I questioned, an eyebrow raised in the style of a curious canine.

Dot, caught spot on, sighed. “Angel, I confess. It was me.”

“What fiendish master plan drove you to such savory sabotage?”

“I… can’t… reach… my… back.” Dot whimpered. “Planned to use the pie crust to scratch it.”

Dot was a creature of simple needs; a scratching pie crust now stood between her and criminal genius. The Pâté Pie, partially consumed, lay hidden under Dot’s bed, a tragedy in pastry form.

Yet, Pawsburgh wasn’t without mercy or mirth. Dot returned the remains and we crafted a replacement: a dog-biscuit crust filled with gravy and garnish. Not quite the original recipe, but we Pawsburghians thrive on improvisation.

I, Angel, a Pitbull of refined taste and twisted tail, returned the pie. The town howled in delight, the day was saved, and my heart swelled. Mom was sure to beam at my tale, her own star detective conquering gastronomy and theft in a single bound. It’s just another day, another mystery in the life o’ me—Angel, the sleuth of Pawsburgh with a penchant for pâté and justice, and an occasional nibble at the hem of Dad’s pants.

The End.