There she was.

Standing perfectly still in the hallway, eyes wide, ears alert, and body halfway between “flee” and “pretend nothing happened.” Abbi had that look—the unmistakable, undeniable look of a dog caught in the act. The only question was… what act? There was no chewed shoe in sight. No overturned trash can. No suspicious crumbs trailing behind her. Just one very tense, very still Boston Terrier with a guilty face and not a single clue left behind. We looked at her. She looked at us.

And then—like a criminal weighing her options—she blinked slowly, turned around, and calmly walked away. No explanation. No tail wag. Just a dramatic exit like she had nothing to hide… which made us even more suspicious. Was she sneaking a forbidden snack? Plotting a couch invasion? Practicing her “pretend to be stuck so someone gives me attention” routine? We may never know.

But that’s the thing about Abbi—she’s a mystery wrapped in fur. One minute she’s all snuggles and innocence, and the next she’s vanishing into another room just before you hear a strange thud. She’s clever. She’s sneaky. She’s charming enough to get away with anything. So we keep an eye on her. We investigate the occasional missing sock. We watch for clues. And yet somehow, every time we think we’ve caught her in the act… all we get is that face. That “who, me?” face.

And just like that, the case goes cold.