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In the town of Port Swizzle lived a dog named Buster, a Beagle with a nose so powerful it could detect a single drop of spilled milk from three towns away. Buster wasn't a police dog, but he took his role as Neighborhood Snack Inspector very seriously.

One sunny Tuesday morning, a crime occurred. Mrs. Quibble, the kindest lady in town, had left a single, enormous blueberry muffin cooling on her windowsill. When she returned from watering her prize-winning petunias, the muffin was gone. Only a few tell-tale crumbs remained.

"Buster! We have a case!" Mrs. Quibble cried.

Buster's tail began to spin like a propeller. He sniffed the windowsill. Blueberry, butter, sugar... and a faint whiff of... trombones?

He followed the scent trail. It led him across the freshly mowed lawn, past the bubbling fountain, and straight up to the front door of Mr. Clarence Pumble, the town’s only professional trombone player.

Mr. Pumble opened the door, a look of profound innocence plastered on his face. "Yes, Buster? Can I help you?"

Buster didn't bark. He simply pointed his very damp, very determined nose at the corner of the room, where a large, shiny trombone stood.

Mr. Pumble sighed dramatically. "Oh, very well. It's not me, Buster. It's the trombone! It gets lonely! It's an emotional eater!"

He sheepishly tilted the trombone. A single, squished, slightly blueberry-stained muffin tin liner tumbled out, followed by a shower of crumbs.

Buster looked at the trombone player. Mr. Pumble looked back. "The acoustics are better when it’s full of sweets," he whispered conspiratorially. "Don't tell Mrs. Quibble."

Buster gave a silent, judgmental huff, then nudged Mr. Pumble's hand. Mr. Pumble understood. He hurried to the kitchen and returned with a plate of fresh scones, which he promptly shared with his furry, four-legged detective. As for the trombone, it was put on a strict diet of only musical notes until it learned to control its appetite.