Hey there! It’s Gianna, Pawsburg’s parade-hero bulldog, chiming in. Just saved the town’s Thanksgiving spectacle from going to the dogs – quite literally! Led the pack with Max & Luna, sniffed out a mystery, and turned a potential parade-poopin’ pup into the star of the show. We stitched together more than just the floats—we mended spirits. And now? We’re basking in the afterglow of a furry fairytale ending. Parade’s done, hearts won, tails waggin’. 🦴🎉 #BulldogSleuth
– Gianna

Listen to the story here

As the unofficial mascot of Pawsburg, with a face as adorably creased as a well-loved road map and a tail that thrums like a drumroll at the punchline of a joke, I feel it’s my duty to tell you about the most bizarre Thanksgiving Day Parade this side of the Canine International Date Line.

You see, every year, Pawsburg transforms. Weimaraner Woods shimmers with fairy lights, Opal Pomeranian Park hosts the grandest of stands, and Onyx Otterhound Oasis cleans its water features until they’re fit for drinking (the fresh sort, not the back-alley puddle variety). Our charming town overflows with doggy laughter and wagging tails, all while the scent of Chihuahua’s Chimichangas drifts on the breeze like a test of willpower.

Then there’s me—Gianna, the cuddly English Bulldog who’d snooze in a bay window over studying the fine print of any parade rulebook. This Thanksgiving, though, I waddled into a caper that unfolded like a mismatched pair of socks—not exactly proper but, in hindsight, comfortably delightful.

It started with a shredded banner at Canine Couture Clothing, where the latest fashion usually involves more ribbons than a maypole. These decorations, however, didn’t so much glisten as they hung limply, telling a sordid tale of sabotage. Next, Husky’s Hotcakes found their syrup supply suspiciously sticky and spilt all over—practically a caramelized crime scene. In other words, a saboteur was afoot, and their toes were decidedly not the webbed kind.

We—Max, Luna, and I—made the Scooby Gang look like absentee landlords. Sprung into action we did, as much as a dog with a propensity to overindulge in chicken and peanut butter can ‘spring’. Max cocked an ear just so, assuming his sleuth-like silhouette, while Luna pranced about, able to spot a clue from six dog park lengths away.

As we scented our rogue, I chewed over the motive. What drives a dog to deny their own fraternity the thrill of float-mounted frivolity? The caper transpired like a string of chewed-up squeaky hamburgers, each chomp revealing more stuffing and less reason.

After much sniffing and several pawsitively misleading trails, we uncovered our marauder, quivering in the bushes. It was no other than Chester, the dour-faced Basset Hound, who felt as left out of the parade fun as a cat at a dog’s birthday party.

With tails tucked between our legs, we faced facts: the true meaning of Thanksgiving had been buried beneath the parade fanfare. Without confrontation, we wagged an olive branch of peace at Chester. Inviting him into our fold, we proposed he use his… unique set of skills to enhance the parade.

Fast-forward to floats mending at the speed of puppy love, decorations resurrected in origami intricacies only a canine contortionist could envision. On the day of thanks, even The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium doled out endorsement deals; turns out, dogs in dapper Thanksgiving costumes attract business and defy species-specific branding.

When the parade unrolled like a well-aimed throw rug, our patchwork band watched, side by side, as Chester led the march, nose regally in the air; he had fashioned the most extravagant float, complete with a theme of inclusivity and fellowship. Everyone was there, from the sheriff of Weimaraner Woods to the high-flying terriers of Onyx Otterhound Oasis. Even Jamie, my beloved, wore a smile as satisfying as an uninterrupted belly rub session.

In the end, the day was an over-stuffed pillow of joy. We discovered that even the most unyielding of bulldogs could learn a new trick: compassion. And as the parade turned a corner, I wondered how I could possibly recount this escapade with the panache it deserved. Oh, who am I kidding? I’m Gianna, the bulldog with the drool of humor and the bark of wit; I’d have it no other way.

The End.