And that, my friend, actually depends on the establishment you’re sourcing 'em from

In the US nobody knows of which they are made

I thought Americans ate their pets. \s

What’s next? Are you gonna tell me that there is no corn in corn dogs either?

Not with that attitude, they’re not. Back in my day we had good old-fashioned corn dogs made of every kind of dog you can imagine. German Shepherds. Dachshunds. Labrador Retrievers. Irish Wolfhounds. Greyhounds. Golden Retrievers. Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retrievers. Border Collies. Normal Collies. Bull Dogs. Giant Schnauzers. Miniature Schnauzers. Corgis. Poodles. Airedale Terriers. Lhasa Apsos. Shihtzus. Chihuahuas. Xoloitzcuintles. But that was back when men were men and dogs were corn dogs.

The Dog in the Corn: A Private Detective Story

The rain tapped the windows like a thousand tiny fingers, begging for mercy. The city was still—silent, save for the occasional distant scream of tires on wet pavement. It was the kind of night that clung to your bones, a reminder of the seedy underbelly lurking just out of view.

My name’s Sam Donovan. Private detective. The kind of guy who doesn’t ask too many questions when the cash is right. I’ve seen it all: cheating husbands, missing persons, stolen goods, and the occasional moral quandary. But nothing, nothing could’ve prepared me for what came knocking at my office door one dreary evening.

She walked in, just as the clock struck midnight.

Her name was Betty Winters. A name that tasted like trouble. She had legs for days, eyes that could melt a man’s resolve, and lips painted like blood in a dark alley. She was the kind of dame who had a cause, and it wasn’t long before I realized her cause was going to be the end of me.

“Mr. Donovan,” she said, her voice soft as silk, but there was something sharp underneath, like the edge of a blade. “I need your help.”

I leaned back in my chair, eyeing her from beneath the brim of my fedora. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, doll.”

She slipped a manila envelope across the desk. I opened it, expecting the usual fare—a stack of photos, a briefcase full of cash, a hastily scribbled note. Instead, there was a single photograph—grainy, but enough to make my stomach churn. A corndog, sizzling in hot oil, the golden crust crisp and perfect. But something was off. I squinted, zoomed in. The meat inside wasn’t right. It didn’t look like anything I’d ever seen on a stick before.

“What is this?” I asked, my gut already twisting.

“That’s what we need to know,” Betty said, her eyes gleaming with that kind of fiery passion only a woman like her could muster. “We’ve been tracking animal cruelty in the corndog supply chain, Mr. Donovan. Something’s going on, and we need you to find out what.”

“Animal cruelty, huh? You got my attention, but why me?”

She smiled, a thin, dangerous smile. “Because you’re the best at finding things people don’t want found.”

I’d been around long enough to know when to take a case and when to turn it down, but something about Betty—something about the way she looked at me—made me hesitate. I reached for my cigarette, lit it slowly, then nodded. “Alright, Betty. I’m in. But I need to know everything. No secrets.”

Her eyes flickered, but she kept her cool. “I’ll tell you everything. Just… don’t go digging too deep, Sam. Some things are better left alone.”

It should’ve been my first warning.

The next few days were a blur of shadowy figures and smoke-filled rooms. I trailed the corndog trucks from the factories to the street vendors. I dug into the suppliers, the middlemen, and the workers who made the greasy, golden treats that the city devoured without a second thought.

The deeper I went, the weirder it got. There were whispers—shifty looks from the people who ran the meatpacking plants, workers who wouldn’t speak unless they had a few drinks in them. I started to piece it together, and the puzzle didn’t sit right. Something was wrong. They were hiding something. And it wasn’t just the usual corporate greed.

I had one lead left, one final stop before the truth came crashing down. It was the biggest corndog factory in town, the one that had been around since before my father had left me with nothing but a couple of bad memories and a scar on my heart.

But Betty had other plans. She found me, or maybe I let her. Either way, she showed up at my door that night, dressed to kill.

“I told you to stay away,” she said, stepping into my office like she owned it. And in some ways, maybe she did. She had a way of owning everything in her vicinity, even the air I breathed.

I stood, straightened my tie. “What are you hiding, Betty?”

She smiled again, that wicked, knowing smile. “What do you think I’m hiding, Sam?”

I pointed at the photo on my desk—the corndog with the meat that didn’t belong. “This. What’s in that meat?”

Her expression faltered for a split second, but only I noticed. Then she stepped closer, her perfume filling the air like smoke. “You’re too smart for your own good, Sam,” she whispered.

That’s when the truth hit me like a freight train.

I wasn’t chasing a corporate conspiracy. I wasn’t dealing with some evil conglomerate trying to make a quick buck off animal cruelty. No. It was worse. Much worse.

I’d been chasing the meat in the corndogs. And it wasn’t cow, or pig, or anything else I’d seen in a butcher’s shop.

It was dog.

I froze. “You’re behind this, aren’t you?”

Betty didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

“I told you to stay away,” she said again, her voice soft and almost… tender. “But you wouldn’t listen. You never do.”

I stumbled back, my head spinning. “Why… why would you do this?”

She sighed, almost regretful. “Because, Sam… I’m the heir to the corndog empire. My father built it from the ground up. And when he passed, I took over. I couldn’t let the business fall apart. The world doesn’t want to buy hot dogs anymore. They want something different. Something more exotic. Dog meat is cheap. It’s… efficient.”

“You’re insane,” I muttered.

She smirked. “You’re one of the last few people in the world who still care about ethics. You think people would stop eating corndogs if they knew the truth? They wouldn’t. Nobody cares, Sam. And nobody will care about you, either.”

I wasn’t afraid of her, but I was damn sure afraid of what I had uncovered. “So, what now? You have me in your pocket, and you’re going to make me part of the whole mess?”

She stepped closer, placing a hand on my chest. “No, Sam. You’re too valuable to throw away. I think you’ll come around eventually. You always do.”

I could feel the weight of her words settle over me like a vice, slowly squeezing the life out of my resolve.

It wasn’t long before I gave up my office, and took a seat at the table, playing Betty’s game. I should’ve been disgusted, should’ve walked away. But when you’re staring down the barrel of something this big, you don’t walk away. You play your cards and hope you don’t get burned.

The city would never know the truth behind its beloved corndogs. Not as long as Betty had control.

And me? I became just another cog in the machine. But that’s the thing about life—sometimes, the truth is darker than any of us can handle.

And sometimes, the dog in the corn is the least of your worries.