Hey Mom and Dad,

Guess what? Your Bubba became the hero of Pawsburg! Falsely jailed for a Thanksgiving parade disaster, I sniffed out the real troublemaker with my pal Buddy. Won freedom, cleared my name, and turned a grumpy dachshund into a parade star. All’s well as the tail wags – justice and scrambled eggs triumph!

Wags and woofs,
Queso 🦴🐾

Listen to the story here

Bollocks. That’s what it felt like, the whole town of Pawsburg turned topsy-turvy, and me – Queso, the bulldog with a snore louder than my bark – wrongly accused, stuck in the local doghouse.

You see, right before the annual Thanksgiving Day parade, all of Pawsburg was in a right pickle. Decorations shredded, floats defaced, even Barking Brunch’s turkey feast was filched. It was chaos, and somehow, they pinned it all on me.

But I can tell you this: it wasn’t I. Admittedly, I had the strength to do it, but the motive? I love Thanksgiving, the smell of scrambled eggs in the morning, a parade… And I detest broccoli – not festivities.

So here it begins, or rather, continues – my extraordinary escape from injustice, framed in the very town I adored, like a badly-drawn caricature of a canine caper.

Thank goodness for Buddy, dear friend, brave Labrador, always wagging his tail like it’s trying to fan the flames of adventure. He stood staunch by my side, smuggled me my prized rubber chicken through the fence as we plotted my escape from this confinement.

The first glimmer of dawn brought forth our cue. There’d been this chihuahua, Radar his name, had the whole layout of Pawsburg kennelled in his head. “An escape plan is like a good woman, gotta appreciate its complexity,” he muttered in my ear, as Buddy distracted the old bloodhound on night duty with a tale of exaggerated exploits.

We wriggled through tunnels dug under the Diamond Doberman Dunes and emerged by the Kelpie Keys just as the first float – a magnificent gravy boat, no less – was making its way down the Pearl Papillon Promenade.

Freedom never smelt sweeter, not even the allure of scrambled eggs could compare. But before I could rejoin the parade, I had a vindication to claim and a real scoundrel to unmask.

With paws smeared in crime unwillingly, I had to sniff out hints of true guilt like a Sunday morning mystery. The trail led us back to Pawsburg, through streets I knew like the underside of my food bowl. And there we found it; amidst the mirth and pie, Pooch’s Pizzeria sported regurgitated decoration bits around its bins. We were close.

The saboteur was none other than Marbles, a bit of a sour dachshund, who wasn’t invited to march in the parade. Hurt had ignited his mischief. Understandable, really, everyone wants to feel included, even though, in Marbles’ case, it manifested in a rather unsporting manner.

But Pawsburg, mate, it blazes with a spirit too bright to be dimmed by one dog’s pique. Buddy and I, true to the laws of dramaturgy, suggested that the ruffian be invited to join the parade, shaking paws over the matter. Decked out with tinsel, Marbles became the heart warmer of the show, proof that kindness trumps confrontation any day.

And as the stars pricked the twilight above the rejoicing town, I, Queso, reclaimed my place amongst kith and kinfolk, celebrating not merely a parade, but the essence of Thanksgiving. It really is about the giving, you see, even giving second chances to wayward dachsunds.

“Now, isn’t this a story for the pups?” Buddy chuffed, as we watched Marbles trotting merrily ahead. I’ll tell mom-and-dad about this one, and you can bet your bottom kibble it’ll also go down in Pooch’s Pub folklore, with the rubber chicken as my witness and scrambled eggs waiting on the morrow.

So there you have it – my Pawsburg Thanksgiving tale, the truth of which is etched in every wagging tail. The tale of how I, Queso, with a bit of wit and bulldog spirit, broke free and found the heart of gratitude. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I smell eggs.

The End.