Hey buddy,

Just wrapped up being Pawsburg’s Sherlock Bones, saving our parade from a mischief-making mongrel and turning him into a pal. True Thanksgiving tale with tails wagging in unity! Gotta love a happy ending where every pooch finds their pack. 🐾

Barks and regards,
B-Dog (a.k.a Bailey)

Listen to the story here

‘Twas in the curious heart of Pawsburg, a land betwixt and between, that I found myself not a mere quadruped, but a sleuth stepping straight from the pages of a hound’s own hodgepodge Holmesian fantasy. Now, I’m Bailey to those who throw the frisbee – a Border Collie, they say, though I fancy myself more a pupil of Pawsburg’s pulse, a watchdog of its whimsy.

It was as the leaves turned to gold and hearths began to smolder, that Pawsburg readied itself for the annual Thanksgiving Day cavalcade. A pageant of parade floats – as splendid as any feast – was the talk of every tail-wagger, from Malamute Mountain to Saluki Sands. Yet an ill wind blew, one not redolent with the scent of Terrier Tacos or Poodle’s Pasta, but of mischief, rife and rampant.

A mysterious scoundrel, quick-footed and fiendishly wily, had embarked upon a spree of sawdust and ruined revelry. Bunting was torn, goodies purloined, and the labors of our laborious paws undone. Who would dare rain on our parade?

It fell to me, Bailey, and my coterie of comrades – Max, with his olfactory exploits; Luna, whose moonlit fur gleamed with secrets; and Gizmo, small but stouthearted – to unravel the matter. A Border Collie never shirks from hardship, least of all when peanut buttery rewards dance in our dreams. We set off, paws padding the byways of Akita Alley and the bustling bazaar of The Snooty Snout Boutique.

A lead, at long last! A trail of shredded streamers led to the old willow by the Doggone Deli where we cornered our culpritor – Scout, the scrappy mongrel whose bark beat like the brooding storm cloud of his heart. Yes, Scout – solitary, surly, and soured by the sweet sap of celebration that had never stuck to his ribs. You see, Scout had never tasted the comradeship of companions, the frolic of frisbee on field – never known the joys of being part of this paradise.

An assembly circled, jowls agape, as the drama unfurled. Confrontation shivered in the air, but ’twas not our style. For in Pawsburg, we are nothing if not peddlers of peace, purveyors of pardon. We understood Scout’s cry – a woof wrapped in sorrow’s shroud.

“Hark,” I spoke, as the collective of canines cocked their collie-flopped and terrier-trimmed ears, “let not this day be marked by malice but by mending. Shall we not extend our paw in fellowship to this mongrel of mystery and invite him into the unyielding embrace of our community?”

A murmur spread, tails untwisted, and snouts sniffed at a new scent – the fragrance of forgiveness. Why, even the Harrisons would revel in the recounting of such a tale, tangled in the joy of such whimsy and wag.

And so, the parade burgeoned, bolstered not just by festoons and fanfare but by the spirit of thanksgiving itself. Scout, our former saboteur, now marshal and mender of that which he marred, led the way. With every dog playing its part, we twirled through Pawsburg’s streets, a symphony of snouts and tails, united in the dance of compassion.

The day was saved, the threat diminished by the thump of hearts and the thunder of paws. When the sun dipped below Malamute Mountain, we lay in repose, filled with the gratification that only comes when you bolster a bond frayed and almost fumbled. We had not just paraded but parlayed; turned a woeful wag into a jubilant jaunt.

And I, Bailey, lay my head on my paws, a patchwork sentinel over a town steeped in the surety that, above all, Pawsburg was no mere spectacle but a sanctuary where every bark bespeaks belonging and every growl a whispered grace.

The End.