The glowing stone
“Right,” she whispered to herself, squinting at the night sky like some feline James Bond, “tonight, we solve the mystery of the glowing stones.”
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The missing wind socks
Ruby neighbourhood’s premier pet detective (self-proclaimed, of course), flicked her tail in a manner that suggested she was either deeply annoyed or plotting world domination
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The purr-loining caper
Her whiskers twitched. Something was off. Something sinister. The post.
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The humming lamp
The night was dark. Dark like a cupboard under the stairs that smells of old tuna and existential dread.
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The bell symphony
“Something smells… off,” she muttered to herself, whiskers twitching like antennae picking up signals from another dimension.
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The picnic basket heist
They say curiosity killed the cat. I say, nonsense. Curiosity pays the bills, keeps my fur shiny, and most importantly, makes me the best-darned detective in the neighbourhood.
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The bamboozled boulevards
Ruby twitched her whiskers. The street signs were wrong again. “Catnip Avenue” had somehow become “Doggo Lane”. Again.
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The gnome who blinked
Ruby would like it noted, formally, for the record, and possibly for future litigation—that she is not paranoid.
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The vanishing sparkly thing
Ruby sighed the sigh of a cat who had seen too much of the world and too little tuna.
“Gone,” she repeated. “Or misplaced?”
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Birdbathgate
I am Ruby.
I am a cat.
I am also, due to a catastrophic shortage of competent humans, the neighbourhood’s only pet detective.
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The glitter goblin
Mrs. Prendergast, two houses down, shrieked like someone had tried to steal her porcelain teapot collection.
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Ruby rumbles into resolution season!
It was the 1st of January, 9:07 a.m., and Ruby the cat, renowned neighbourhood detective, chaos facilitator, part-time sofa ornament, was already having A Day.
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The rebellious sidewalk chalk
Ruby was not just any cat.
She was the cat.
Ruby the Great. Ruby the Fluffy. Ruby the Sleek Shadow of Mild Chaos.
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A Christmas tail of mischief
She hit the carpet with an indignant “MrrRAOW!” which, loosely translated, meant, “I absolutely meant to do that, peasants.”
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The river of Vrrrroom
Ruby, a cat with the investigative instincts of Sherlock Holmes and the patience of an overtired toddler, was having a morning.
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Ruby rrrrr-ports for duty…
Ruby was not just any cat. She was THE cat, capital letters, underlined twice, possibly with glitter.
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Soggy squirrels
Ruby, full-time cat, part-time diva, and accidental neighbourhood detective, was deep in her afternoon nap when the call came in.
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Criminally chaotic doorknobs
If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s this: I, Ruby Whiskerford, am the undisputed Pet Detective of Maple Lane.
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The case of the disco fireflies
Ruby, the neighbourhood’s only feline private detective, perched dramatically on top of the fence post, her tail flicking like a metronome set to “mysterious suspense.”
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Ruby and the topiary of doom
I, Ruby, am a cat. But not just any cat. I am the neighbourhood’s premier, occasionally terrifying, frequently fabulous pet detective.
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Ruby and the scent-sational bird bath caper
Ruby, the sleek, velvet-pawed neighbourhood detective, had a nose for trouble.
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The great fractal caper
The outdoor lights, those little things that normally projected tasteful patterns of flowers and butterflies onto lawns, had gone rogue.
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Ruby and the case of the vanishing pots
Her life consisted of 2 things: observing humans make fools of themselves, asserting her undisputed reign as the neighbourhood’s top pet PI.
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Ruby and the case of the firefly fiasco
It was a night so dark that even the streetlamp on Mrs. Piggott’s corner was humming in protest.
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Paw Prints
Ruby was not, in any official sense, a detective. She had no badge, no trench coat, no magnifying glass.
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Whisker Chaos
Ruby was no ordinary cat. She wasn’t even an ordinary nosey cat. She was the neighbourhood’s unofficial pet detective.
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Whisker Crimes
Ruby, neighbourhood cat extraordinaire, awoke at precisely 7:04 a.m. to find that the world was once again falling apart.
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The night of the crickets’ conspiracy
It wasn’t normal chirping. This was… organised.
Like they’d been to night school for percussion.
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Remote Hysteria
It all began when Mrs. Peabody from Number 7 waddled into the street wearing her pink fluffy dressing gown (and not much else, according to a horrified postman) shouting,
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Whisker Whaaaaat?!
It was a quiet Tuesday on Pinecone Lane. The kind of quiet that cats don’t trust.
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