Hey pack,

Another fur-raising adventure in Pawsburg! Your girl Ruby (a.k.a. Sniffer Supreme) just cracked the case of Charlie’s vanishing act. Turns out, he’d just stepped into the leash of self-discovery, or should I say ‘self-walkery’? Kept my snout to the ground and my eye on the prize, only got side-tracked by the whiff of grilled chicken once… or twice! Who says you can’t have your treat and eat it too? Tail wags for now; this hound detective is off duty until the next mystery paws up!

With a wag and a woof,
Ruby 🐾✨

When a particularly chill wind snaked its way through the gables of Pawsburg, I knew something was afoot—or apaw, as we locals like to jest. Being of a certain Boxer-Rottweiler blend, mysteries are my marrow, you might say, and I, Ruby, was ready to sink my teeth into the latest caper that whipped up the leaves and the gossip on Bichon Boulevard.

It began on a soggy Tuesday when the birds in Barker’s Meadow were singing in some fangled Morse code, and my ears perked to the news of a vanishing—Charlie, the jovial Golden Retriever, who ran Happy Hounds Dog Walking, had disappeared like a bone in a backyard. Charlie was a friend, a fellow enthusiast in all things meaty and savory, yet his sudden absence left a hole, and not just the burrowing kind.

With my trusty squeaky hamburger tucked firmly under my jowls, I ambled with purpose toward Whippet Way, keen to sniff out any clue. Pawsburg was alive with whispers, the hiss of sprinklers the only backdrop to my thoughts as I maneuvered the cobblestones.

At Corgi’s Crepes, the scent of chicken fluttered; my favorite aroma, light and promising, like a breeze through a crack in the door. I pondered a pit stop, but no—duty before delicacies.

“Ruby!” A yip came from The Barking Boutique as I passed. It was Sasha, the svelte Dalmatian with a penchant for tartan collars and juicy tidbits of town lore. “Pawsibly seen Charlie this morn!” she yapped, one ear cocked forward, the other laid back, her stance the personification of a dog-eared question mark.

“Where?” I asked, my words muffled by the hamburger.

“Follow,” she barked, trotting off with a swish of her spot-flecked tail—a beacon of intrigue guiding me through the labyrinth of scents and sights Pawsburg offered.

We wove our way to Eskimo Estuary, a place where sounds bounced like misfired tennis balls. There, I saw a singular clue by the water’s edge—a familiar leash, untethered, swaying like a pendulum that ticked away in the silent chime of absence.

Suddenly, with the misplaced wisdom of the befuddled, I understood. Charlie, dear old Charlie, was not vanished; he had simply transcended the ranks of the walked, and become one with the walkers. “Found himself,” as they say in these quirky haunts, “on the other end of the leash.”

The mystery thus dissolved in the mundane, I felt a pang of disappointment sharper than a vet’s needle. But ah, what of it? Pawsburg pulsated with enigmas enough for a lifetime of tales. With one last glance at the bobbing leash, I decided to console my tummy at Bark-n-Bite Bistro with a plate of that grilled chicken.

Back home, I relished the telling of this oddity to my humans, who laughed and petted me as though I had delivered the punchline to the finest joke. They never truly understood; I’m not just their Ruby. In each escapade, I am the sleuth, the jester, and the shadow that dares to dance when the night has crept upon Pawsburg.

So until next time, remember this—if tales are to be told, let them be told by dogs for dogs, because only then will they have the bark and the bite. And as for me, I’ll be here, waiting for the next peculiar waft, the next hushed whistle, the next Pawsburgian tale to pounce upon.

The End.

Share This Story: