The House is what they call it. I know it as The Mess. The Noise. The Mayhem. Was a time when these parts were calm and fruitful. Young fella might make a space for himself, get allowed on the couch, free roam of the yard and all the toys were his.

There was a time.

Nowadays The House is crowded and over populated. Noisy gangs have taken up shop and made their own messes and marks. Used to be be that I could do it all alone — keep the squirrels off the fence, put the mail man in his place, clean the crumbs off the carpet...find the best times to throw up in the middle of the night.

Then...wham. I got old. And they came. No way a hound of eight years can get it all done anymore. This was going to be my last big case, then: retirement. Spending my days on my electric blanket. Afternoon walks. And I’d sleep and fart under the desk in Man’s cave to my hearts content.

One. Last. Case.

And as I walked on to the scene, I knew it would be a doozy. Custom Kitchen had been clean once, a bright part of town where almost every night new smells bubbled out of every pot. Now-a-days...chicken nuggets.

That’s all the Little’s Gang wanted. Man and Lady had tried, but they were out numbered and out-youthed. Little bastards had the benefit of inexperience and endless energy on their side.

The victim's body was shattered on the floor. Pieces of Turtle Jar were everywhere, but there was shell enough for me to identify him. None of his cookies, though.

Murder and robbery.

I put my nose to the floor and find the old snout picks up...a faint mess of...there’s...socks? Aw, hell. The old girl ain’t what she used to be.

Them damn diapers done me in. Damned stink-butt Little’s.

Let’s think. Four suspects. Biggun is out off to wherever makes him smell of other Little’s and paint. Big-gal, too. Snotty is home, but he's napping.

Grub? He’s strapped to Lady. That could be a ruse, though. The Little Gang pull that one a lot. Latest Grub getting all Lady’s love and pets and treats and then Wham! They’re on all fours and biting your tail.

Little Bast—wait.

Fifth suspect. The phantom. Hissbert. Sneaky, scaredy, black as night, burglar.

And worse...cat.

“Where are you hiding, cat!”

“Get stuffed, coppa!” Said a voice from atop the cabinets. “I ain’t done nuffin!”