Hey Mom,

Managed to sniff out & befriend an alien meddling with our Thanksgiving parade here in Pawsburg! 😄 The town’s embracing our new friend now. Turns out, making peace (and parade floats!) beats squirrel-chasing any day. Love and treats from your son,

Xander 🐾👽🦃✨

Listen to the story here

Ah, dear reader, it was a crisp morning in Pawsburg—the kind where the leaves carpeted Samoyed Square with a mosaic of russet and gold, and the air smelt of pumpkin spice wafting from Doggone Deli. The town was abuzz with the anticipation of our annual Thanksgiving Day parade, a veritable feast for the eyes and snouts alike. I, Xander, a bulldog of some repute (and a bit of a gourmand if I do say so myself), relished the thought of the upcoming merriments.

Yet, ’twas not to be a tranquil season, for a shade was cast upon our beloved Pawsburg as a mysterious kaput-maker began their villainous spree. Decorations were despoiled, floats were found floundering… Even Pup’s Paella lost paella. Shambles, I tell you, sheer shambles.

Mustering the spirit of one who knows how to confront adversity head-on (or rather, how to headbutt it), I gathered my motley crew. There was Baxter, whose nose, though often sniffing out mischief, was as sharp as the finest stiletto; Whiskers, sagacious indeed with a glint of experience in his feline eyes; and Captain, whose feathered head contained more acumen than the Husky’s Hotcakes had maple syrup.

Our pursuit of the saboteur was coloured with evidence—too inconspicuous for an untrained eye, like the faint smudges of grey next to a tattered streamer or the aroma of unfamiliar shampoo by a whisk where a pie used to be. We trailed behind the clues with the finesse of elephants doing ballet—well, for me, at least.

“A saboteur lurking in Pawsburg?” Baxter said, “We’ve never had such a scandal!”

Whiskers, drolling his meow, offered, “Perhaps our uninvited guest isn’t part of the canines. You know, our extraterrestrial friends are not unknown for their love for turkey.”

Captain chirped in agreement, “Yes! Might be they’ve journeyed from afar, wanting a piece of our Thanksgiving cosiness.”

And there, in the shadow of the great Sapphire Schnauzer Street balloon, we discovered our villain—a lonesome little creature, neither dog nor turkey, but something quite out of this world. Small, grey, and with eyes that screamed ‘not from around here’, the being shivered alone, clearly responsible for the mishap and mayhem.

“Pardon me, mate,” I barked, my tone more dulcet than I had intended. “Why be such a spoil-sport to our jollities?”

The creature burbled something melancholic, a story of exclusion and desire to partake in our dogglesome delights. Here was a fellow creature, craving the warmth of our hearth, pained by the exclusion of the parade.

Baxter’s ears softened. Whiskers contemplated with a philosophical meow. Captain uttered a proffering squawk. And as for me, my heart, robust as my love for chicken (a preference over bananas this time of year), swelled tenfold.

In an act of unexpected munificence, we extended our paw, claw, and talon, inviting the little being to join us. We put his peculiar talents to use, repairing the parade quicker than you could say “Fetch! Toys and Treats.”

As the procession flowed through Cavalier Cove, the town brimmed with cheer and gratitude, willing to embrace one more into its fold. And the reformed extraterrestrial? He, or that as they might be, paraded at the forefront with Whiskers and I, symbols of Pawsburg’s spirit of Thanksgiving—belonging, compassion, and an ever-extending table.

The moral is not farfetched: community and acceptance serve not merely as the bedrock of society but also, as we in Pawsburg had learned, the grand old buffer against any alien invasion or parade-wrecking.

The End.