Ruby woke to catastrophe. Not the usual kind, like Mrs. Dipple’s chihuahua getting stuck in the recycling bin again. No. This was worse. This was personal. “WHO TOOK MY SOCKS?!” Mrs. Pimm was in full morning meltdown mode, standing in her bathrobe and one polka-dot slipper, holding up what appeared to be… a single sock. … More Sockpocalypse Meow

Ruby had just settled into her 3rd nap of the morning (post-breakfast, pre-lunch) when the sirens started again. Not real sirens. Worse. Mrs. Pimm’s wailing. “MURDER! FOUL PLAY! My feather duster’s been… murdered!” Ruby opened one eye. Blinked. Rolled onto her back and pretended not to care. But curiosity is a cruel mistress, and by … More Feather duster fugitive

It began, as these things often do, on a Tuesday. Ruby, cat extraordinaire, sworn enemy of vacuum cleaners, and self-appointed detective of Chestnut Crescent, was sunbathing on the Richardson’s windowsill when it struck. No, not a bird. Though she’d swatted at three that morning (all misses, but let’s not dwell). It was chaos. One moment, … More Yarnageddon unravelled

It all started on a Tuesday. Tuesdays are statistically the most suspicious day of the week. Don’t ask for the data, I’m a cat not a spreadsheet. I’m Ruby. Pet detective. Six pounds of attitude, fur, and a PhD in giving humans judgmental stares. I live at Number 8, three houses down from Mrs. Gable’s … More Whisker Heist