Hey there,

Just wrapped up another wild Thanksgiving caper in Spencerville. Unmasked a parade saboteur (old Bartholomew!) but in true holiday spirit, we turned him from foe to Grand Marshal. The day ended with a serious note on gratitude and unity. Remember, we’re more than a pack, we’re a family. Leftovers are calling my name now!

Catch you on the next walkabout,
Mr. T 🐾

Listen to the story here

As I, Mr. Trebus, patrolled the brisk and bustling streets of Spencerville with my paws soft on the cobblestones, the pre-Thanksgiving Day parade atmosphere was thick with the scent of K9 Kebabs and the echoes of chattering critters. Dexter’s saucy smirk was nearly as broad as the Eastern White Westie Woods, and Yogi, in his latest monsoon-ready attire, dripped with a nonchalance that would make a cat jealous.

Now, this wasn’t my first gobble-gobble rodeo. Each year, the town outdid itself with floatable feasts, towering spectacles of paper and paint creating a menagerie of festival floats. As the scrutineer of Spencerville, I knew that even the scent of Whiskers and Wings couldn’t distract me from my self-appointed watch.

I was trotting past The Tail Wagger’s Tailor when I sniffed out the first canine concern—the scent of mischief. Banners torn asunder, pumpkins pulverized into an unrecognizable pulp, and turkey feathers in places where turkeys simply don’t belong. A saboteur was afoot, and it was up to me and my coalition of the willing to sniff the villain out.

With a rallying bark, I summoned the gang: Dexter, Yogi, and the enchanting Roxie, who could track a scent as if it were paved in neon. Gunner lent his brawny bravado while Cookie contributed a sweetness that could disarm the grumpiest of old cats.

We embarked on our sleuthful escapade, following the trail of food filched and festivities fouled. Clues came cuddled in crumpled napkins and smears of gravy that no one—not even the ever-peckish Mr. Trebus—paused to lick.

And lo, our paths did cross with the miscreant—a once-respected terrier by the name of Bartholomew Barksalot, once a top hat among us canines, now a shadow lurking in the forgotten crevices of Pug Palace.

“Why, Bartholomew?” I queried as we encircled him beneath the Tuna Moon. “Why turn your bark against the very fabric of our festivity?”

He growled of exclusion, that the parade pomp had lost its pup-pose, blinded by baubles and boastfulness. In his eyes, gratitude had withered like violets in a boxing ring.

And then, like a bolt from the blue, it struck me. What if we could weave Bartholomew back into the woof and warp of We, the Dogs of Spencerville? We offered him not retribution, but rehabilitation—and a coveted role in the parade as Grand Marshal.

As we paraded through town with Bartholomew leading, the raucous cheers of “Bartholo-you! Bartholo-you!” filled the air like bubbles in a soda pop. With every paw-step, the point of Thanksgiving pranced prominently: we’re not just a pack; we’re a potluck.

Together, we carved the Thanksgiving Day parade into one of unity and heart, where a bowl is always replenished and a bed is nocturnal home for all. And in the dusky afterglow of the festivities, laying belly-up in the warmth of Spencerville’s embrace, I mused to myself that perhaps I, Mr. Trebus, had a bit more to be thankful for this year—friendship, family, and the eternal joy of leftover Pup-Tastic Pizza slices.

And with a soft snore that danced to the tune of thankfulness, my eyelids grew heavy, pondering the next day’s walkabout. For in Spencerville, dreams are just a snooze away, and any day can be festooned with the spirit of Thanksgiving, as long as there are frens and family to share it with.

The End.

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