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Harry had a straightforward job — a welcome respite from investigating missing mushrooms and vandalised billboards. Just last week he’d turned down a case to find “who put the wop in the wop-do-wop-da-wap,” simply because he didn’t know what a wop-do-wop-da-wap was.

This job — a P.I.’s dream job-between-a-job — was to find a missing person, Reginald Barkly. Exactly what he needed. Proof of his abilities as a private investigator. Finding Reginald would also net Harry a decent payday. He could finally catch up on rent. Maybe even get his shirt dry-cleaned. It needed it.

It was the afternoon after accepting the case. High afternoon. Harry had a feeling in the pit of his stomach — then remembered he hadn’t eaten in a day and a half. He was just thinking that he ought to start leaving the grounds in his coffee for nourishment when there was a knock on the door.

Then it opened, and in stepped a very paranoid-looking man with a large backpack.

“They’re after me!” the man blurted, slamming the door behind him. “Mr. Bowels, you need to help me. They’re looking for me!”

Harry looked up from his case notes to see a very harried-looking gentleman. He looked like he’d been running — sweating, out of breath. The backpack seemed to move.

“I’m sorry…?” Harry asked, open-endedly. “Who is? And you are?”

The man slipped the backpack from his shoulder and took a few steps closer.
“They are,” he repeated firmly. “You know. Them.”

With a deep, calming breath, Harry closed his eyes and tried to centre himself.
“They are,” he echoed. “And you are?” he asked again.

The man sat in the chair opposite Harry. “My name is Reginald,” he said quickly, as if that were the only speed he had. “And they are after me. Or, more specifically, they’re after my dog.”

Reginald opened the backpack, revealing the source of the movement — a small dog. A puppy.

An ugly puppy. Harry choked.

“They want my puppy, little Fluffles here, for an ugly-dog contest!” he all but shouted. “Harry, you can’t let them have my dog! You’ve gotta help me find a way to get us out of the city. I’ll pay you!”

An incredibly ugly puppy. Harry looked away, bit his lower lip, thought, then bit it again. He had to.
“Why do they want your dog?”

Reginald began to tremble, on the verge of tears. “For an ugly-dog contest!” he wailed. “Harry, Fluffles isn’t ugly!” he cried. “He’s not!”

He whimpered — very doglike — then pulled a Milk-Bone from his backpack and nibbled it. It seemed to calm him.
“I can pay you,” he repeated, voice soft, almost a whimper.

This man — this very emotional man — really did have the ugliest dog Harry had ever seen. Dear God. Harry couldn’t look again without gagging.
“What can you pay? My fee is…”

“Milk Bones!” the man interrupted in a frenzy. “I can pay you in Milk Bones!” He took another bite from his own.

Well, Harry thought. I am hungry.

He looked down, sighed, and nodded in defeat.

As Harry reached for the Milk Bone, the door swung open.

A woman stepped in. Long coat. Dark glasses.

“Bowels,” she said. “Step away from the dog.”

She flashed a badge. “Animal Aesthetics Bureau. We’ve been tracking Fluffles for weeks.”