Hey there,

Marley here, the Lab/Pit philosopher and protector of the Thanksgiving parade! With Bear’s brawn and Mia’s bite, we saved the day from Rascal’s mischief. Banding together, we proved even a mutt in the shadows can find a place at the feast. Inclusion’s the heart of the holiday, and in Pawsburgh, every tail’s welcome. Now, let’s make memories that are more satisfying than a belly full of turkey!

Wags and wisdom,
Marley 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

Midnight had cast its silky veil over Pawsburgh, when I, Marley, trotted out of Willow’s End with purpose in my step. The Thanksgiving Day parade was the talk of the town, and I fancied myself as quite the canine Corleone, a dog out to protect both the festivities and my circle of confidants.

“Marley,” Mr. Peterson had said, with a twinkle in those wise old eyes, “it’s not about what you chase, but whom you fetch alongside.” His words echoed in my mind as I met Bear, my mastiff muscle, and Mia, the terrier with a heart as fierce as her bite, in Dachshund Dale.

“Bear, Mia, it seems we’ve got a caper on our paws,” I declared, my honeyed highlights shimmering under the moonlight.

“It’s a doggone mess,” Mia said, her compact frame vibrating like a washer on a spin cycle. Bear merely grunted, the scar on his snout rippling—a relic from a skirmish with a cat burglar over a prized bone.

Our first clue was discovered near the Bark Buffet – a shred of tartan fabric. “A clue, or just somebody’s idea of a kilt gone rogue?” mused Bear, philosophical in his musings.

The pattern led us straight to Cavalier Cove, where amidst the hustle, a tail of treachery unravelled. Decorations were ravaged, and my beloved blue ball – a beacon of reliability – had vanished along with the roast chicken. My heart ached; my stomach growled in solidarity.

Honing in on the faint scent of grilled chicken, we wove through the town like thread through a needle’s eye, navigating with the stealth of feline ninjas and a determination not even canine cupid could distract.

We discovered the saboteur’s lair, not in Newfoundland Nook as anticipated, but behind The Pawfect Training Center. Before us stood Rascal, a spiky-haired mutt whose eyes held storms of uninvited solitude.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” Mia snapped, hackles raised like a porcupine in defense mode.

Rascal sneered, a trinket of bitterness dangling from his words, “What’s Thanksgiving to a dog left alone in the shadows?”

I held my head high, channeling all the regal diplomacy my mixed breed dignity could muster. “Rascal, Thanksgiving’s not just for the well-fed and well-led. It’s for the underdogs, the top dogs, and the hot dogs. It’s a mishmash of mutts and pedigrees, all feasting together as one pack,” I proclaimed.

Bear’s bark resonated with the wisdom of a pooch who’d seen the underbelly of Pawsburgh’s chew toys. “Thanksgiving, the day we eat till we plop, but hey, it means nothing if it ain’t got that heart.”

A silence fell, as profound as moments before rainfall. Rascal’s eyes softened, like butter left out on a sunny day.

So it was decided, in a turn of compassion, Rascal was invited. Not only to parade but to partake in our doggy debauchery – a celebration of unity and the very essence of Pawsburgh.

The Thanksgiving Day parade was a spectacle as resplendent as a sunbeam through a dew-draped spiderweb. Floats restored, food aplenty, and Rascal’s tartan fabric styled into snazzy bandanas for each participant. It was a day of thankfulness, a reminder that inclusion makes the fur fluffier and the tail waggier.

And through it all, Mr. Peterson watched, an indulgent smile on his lips, as I, Marley – Lab/Pit mix, armchair philosopher, and pawfessional parade protector – realized that the true meaning behind the giving thanks isn’t just in the celebration; it’s in the shared stories, the zoomies, and the squeaky toys that tell us we’re home. And Mr. P? He knew. That old schoolteacher sure knew.

The End.