Hey Mom,

Just saved Thanksgiving with my tail-waggin’ squad! We sniffed out a heartbroken Yorkie causing parade chaos, turned him from villain to hero, and proved Spencerville’s spirit is all about inclusion and joy. Our tails are wagging tales of gratitude today! 🐾

Hugs and licks,
Wrigley Roo 🦴🎉

Listen to the story here

Lo and behold on this cheer-dripped morning, Spencerville woke to the cacophony of bustling feet as every soul, from Greyhound Grove to Westie Woods, was in the thrall of that grand Thanksgiving caper – the parade. In my own keen, a rather curious affair it is, but one that has the tails of my comrades wagging beyond the realm of their usual oscillation.

I, Wrigley of the expressive grin and tail of tumultuous joy, found myself unceremoniously roused from a splendid nap beneath my beloved tree. It seems that this year’s hullabaloo would need more than the usual cursory inspection. A thief, a rascal, a villain of the night had upturned our traditions and, pardon my canine French, pissed right upon our proverbial lamppost of celebration.

No sooner had I stretched my long legs and slapped my chops in readiness than I assembled the motley crew. Chenice, Smokey, Maddie – fiends of old all, came bounding with questions painted across their brows.

“Oh, dash it all, it’s simply not the done thing,” I declared with a nose to the wind. Chenice’s ears pricked up, and the scent was caught. The game was well and truly afoot. We trotted down the ebbing roads of our beloved town towards Shepherd Skyline, alert to the whispers of the air.

We found the first clue amongst the tattered remains of the Whiskers and Wings banner – a strip of cloth, foreign and oddly scented. It crossed my mind then that the olfactory prowess of Glen and Rusty might set us on our way. Off we dashed to the Dapper Dog Salon, whereupon we pawed over the fabric and its secrets to them.

“Exclusion is a bitter broth and no mistake,” I mused as we tracked. The trail wound its way to Westie Woods, where mirth had turned malady. Unsightly gashes marred the floats, and purloined turkey legs bespoke a hunger for more than nourishment. Baffling stuff, yes, but it was here that Maddie’s sharp eyes caught the glimmer of resentment hiding behind a veil of brambles.

A Yorkshire Terrier of solemn countenance, shrouded in the shadows, ears pinned back with, I dare say, a loathing for our Thanksgiving treasures.

“Well,” I barked, surprising myself with the timbre of diplomacy in my voice, “out with it then, old chap. What is this trumpery?”

The Yorkshire’s tale was a sorrow-laden one – a newcomer to Spencerville, never invited, always peering from the fringes, the merriment out of reach. Gratitude was a pie in the sky he could not taste.

Leia, with her Labrador heart infinite in its capacity, was the first to extend a paw. “Why, you ruddy fool, it’s about inclusion, compassion and all that rot. Pulling together, see?”

The light dawned upon those sad little Terrier eyes, and with a bashful askance, he agreed to lend his own artful skills for good. With that, the parade transformed, as mended floats sailed by, mutual understanding knitting together the seams of our community patchwork.

We rolled along, a brigade afresh, and in the warmth of a hundred affable glances, the reformed Terrier’s heart thawed. Amidst the barking and revelry, I found myself oddly touched – as if each wag of our tails was a thank you whispered to the sheer spectrum of Spencerville life.

So, the parade became a roaring triumph, a testament to the collective spirit; Smokey aired his best grin, Chenice chanted away, and I troted alongside them with renewed faith in our two – nay, four-legged nature.

Greyhound Grove rejoiced, Shepherd Skyline sang, and Westie Woods waltzed in the whisper of winds. And I, Wrigley, knew this to be true – Thanksgiving is not merely a day, but a manner of being, lived and breathed in the alleys and avenues of Spencerville.

The End.

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