Hey there,

Just foiled a Thanksgiving parade plot with Max, Luna, and a rogue shepherd-dog named Bernard. Turned a saboteur into a star float designer and saved the day. Pawsburg’s unity is stronger than ever – nothing beats a good tale of forgiveness and friendship. Happy to report all tails are wagging in harmony again!

Catch you at the victory lap around the turkey?

Damian 🐾

Listen to the story here

As the Pawsburg sun rose, splashing golden hues over the rooftops, I, Damian, stretched my athletic form, paw by paw, on the porch. My amber eyes surveyed the tranquil morning with a noble calm, recognizing the peculiar air—Thanksgiving was upon us, and with it, the parade that wrapped our town in a bow of merriment and spectacle.

Indeed, it was that time of year when the town dogs, including Max, Luna, and even Tiddles—feline outlier that she is—would forget our petty squabbles for a slice of the grand turkey mosaic. But this year, whispers of mischief wafted through the streets of Pawsburg. Floats destroyed, decorations eviscerated—quite the scandal in a town that prided itself on a cooperative spirit and a respectable parade.

“Max, Luna,” I called as we convened near Bulldog’s BBQ for a detective’s breakfast. “We’ve got a saboteur on our paws!”

Max’s ears perked up as he gnawed his Barkuterie platter, “Huh, that’s ruff. The parade is the highlight of my social calendar!”

Luna, her eyes as soft as her fur, added, “We’ve got to do something. Pawsburg is about unity, not division.”

As the smell of Paw Pad Thai wafted by, I concocted a plan. We’d split up—Max sniffing out The Wagging Tail Bookstore, Luna trotting over to Setter Shore, and myself bounding towards Spaniel Springs. We were on a mission, as thrilling as any squirrel chase, yet gravely significant.

Our paws pounded the cobbled streets, past Best in Show Photography—where I made a mental note to schedule a regal portrait—and into the alleyways where clues might linger. Each sniff, each insightful observation was a part of the road we traveled to unravel the mystery.

The truth hit us like the chill waters of Bloodhound Bluffs. The villain was none other than a disgruntled shepherd-dog named Bernard. A loner by nature, his feelings of exclusion festered into bitterness—hence the tangled streamers and paw prints of resentment.

As I sat him down, my voice calm and firm, “Bern, buddy, this isn’t you. Pawsburg’s about open doors, not closed hearts.”

His ears drooped, a subtle whimper in his throat. “I just wanted to be a part of something, Damian. To feel like I belong.”

Max, overcome with companionable spirit more than the usual cluelessness, piped in, “Man, we’re all a bit odd. But together, we’re like a perfectly mixed stew at Doggie Diner.”

Luna’s gracious nod was all the affirmation needed. And then, the caper became a caper no more. We harnessed Bernard’s knack for grand designs, redirecting that energy into reconstruction. It was all paws on deck—floats reassembled, banners rehung, and the air filled with the aroma of togetherness.

Thanksgiving had taken on a new form. The parade rolled on; not just a showcase of delight but of unity. Every bark, every tail wag was a testament to understanding, and when Bernard took the lead, his float the most vibrant, my heart swelled. This was the true essence of the holiday—a shared feast for the soul.

As the day waned, with pups of all sizes nestling close to their chosen packs, I pondered over a succulent roast chicken leg. Gratitude wasn’t simply about the grand gestures, but also the quiet forgiveness we extend to one another—like choosing to let Bernard join our fold rather than turn him away.

The story of Pawsburg’s Thanksgiving would be one that echoed through our alleys and boulevards for years to come. As the stars took their watch, I knew ours was a tale worthy of The Wagging Tail’s finest shelf—a saga not just of a parade, but of paws coming together to dance in the name of something greater.

The End.