Hey there!

Just wanted to give you a tail-wagging update! 🐾 I led our furry crew to save Pawsburg’s Thanksgiving from sabotage. Turned out, Sidney was behind the chaos, but with a little paw-to-heart, we welcomed him back, fixed up the floats, and made the parade pawsitively pawfect! Definitely a day for the ‘Good Dogs’ book. 🦴🎉

Woofs & wags,
Lucy 🐶✨

Listen to the story here

As the first rays of dawn crept over Pawsburg, casting an amber hue onto the whispering leaves of Briard Bridge, it was clear that the town was abuzz with preparations for the much-anticipated Thanksgiving Day parade. Streets were strung with garlands of marigolds, and the savory scent of roasting turkey drifted from Collie’s Cuisine, already prepping a feast fit for canine kings. But under this canopy of celebration, a shroud of mysterious malice lurked.

“Lucy, have you heard? Someone’s trying to throw a wrench in the works,” Max, the beagle, whispered to me, his eyes reflecting the concern that now dappled his usually mischievous face.

Before I could so much as tilt my head in curiosity, Bella arrived in a flurry of white curls, “The floats at Ruby Rottweiler Ridge… they’ve been torn apart!”

“Okay, troops,” I barked firmly, my usual optimism now steely with determination, “we’re not letting some saboteur spoil our Thanksgiving!”

Bella, Max, Duke, and I set off, our noses to the ground, sniffing out clues like truffle hounds. We zigzagged through the alleys of Pawsburg, past the twinkling windows of The Dapper Dog Salon, where reflections of perfectly groomed tails wagged back at us with unknowing joy.

The trail led to Harrier Harbor, where the breezy salt air mingled with the unmistakable stench of bitterness. Ah, yes, bitterness—a scent I found as repulsive as the memory of lemon on my tongue.

There, behind stacks of plundered banquets, we found our villain: a scrawny, matted figure whose eyes gleamed not with the magic of Pawsburg but with exclusion’s cold, gnawing pain.

“Sidney,” Duke murmured, recognizing the lone Dalmatian who never quite fit into our festive frolics, “what’s got into you?”

Sidney sneered. “Why should you all revel when I sit forgotten? Celebration, bah!”

I stepped closer, my heart tapping out a rhythm of compassion that might have looked silly to any human spectator. “But Sidney, Thanksgiving isn’t just about the parade or the food. It’s about community, about giving thanks for friends—and that includes you.”

For a moment, the harbor was silent, save for waves that nudged the shore like gently persuasive arguments. Then, from the depths of Sidney’s hardened heart, came a tiny wag of a tail—a white flag in our little feudal engagement.

And so, in a twist fitting for Pawsburg, a place where the mundane tap-dances with the magical, we didn’t simply forgive Sidney; we enlisted his expertise. Who better to rebuild the floats than someone who knew exactly how to tear them down?

Together, we returned to the heart of Pawsburg, our paws painting the streets with a new eagerness. At Wagging Whisk, we whisked up treats; by Doggie Diner, we decorated with renewed zest.

The parade was a triumph, not just of floats and fanfare, but of hearts mending and fences forgiving. And as the processed past The Woofy Bakery, where the scent of pumpkin pie hung as thick as dreams, Sidney beamed, adorned with a garland of gratitude, right beside me.

As night fell and humans returned, unaware of the wondrous world they missed, we dogs lay sprawled by the fireplace, sated not just with food but with the fullness of a day spent cherishing what truly matters.

For in Pawsburg, every endearing tale of wooing wagging tails is knit from the simple, yet profound fabric of magic and realism, a tapestry where every dog has its day, and every day, its dog.

The End.