My name is Benji.

I am a Shetland Sheepdog — a Sheltie, if you prefer — and I live in Willowburrow Village, where the hedgerows smell of honeysuckle, the cobblestones are crooked in a friendly sort of way, and something always happens on a Tuesday.

This particular Tuesday began quietly.

Too quietly.

Pip and Whisker Ferret were doing what ferrets do best: absolutely nothing suspicious. They were sitting outside Tabitha's Tea Room, looking fluffy and innocent, which — I must tell you — is precisely how trouble begins.

Tabitha Cat appeared in her doorway, wiping her paws on her apron.

"I don't feed ferrets," she announced, to no one in particular.

She then placed a small plate of shortbread biscuits on the step.

"That," she added firmly, "is for the sparrows."

Pip ate three. Whisker ate two and hid one in his pocket.

Then — crash.

Tabitha's window box toppled from its ledge, spilling soil and marigolds across the pavement in a spectacular orange avalanche.

Nobody was near it. The latch had simply rusted through.

But Robin Redbreast was watching from the rooftop.

Robin is always watching.

Within four minutes, BirdTok had the story.

"BREAKING," Robin announced, feathers trembling with importance. "Ferrets DESTROY beloved flower display. Village in RUINS. More at sundown."

By teatime, Constable Bartholomew Badger had arrived with his notebook, his magnifying glass, and his expression of professional disappointment.