Hey Mom,

Just solved the great Thanksgiving parade mystery! 😎 Turns out, it was Dexter the Dachshund, feeling left out. Brought him into the pack, and together we turned the parade into a tail-wagging success. Pawsburgh is all about inclusion now, and I’ve never felt more grateful. Detective Sue Jangles – always on the case for a better tomorrow! 🕵️‍♀️❤️✨

Big licks and love,
SUE

Listen to the story here

In the whimsical town of Pawsburgh, where street signs wagged more than tails, I, Sue Jangles, stood firm on Whippet Way with a furrowed brow deep as the creases Emily Dickinson might have penned between her lines of verse. It was the eve of the Thanksgiving Day parad, yet festivities were as crumpled as my favorite chew toy after a spirited session of play.

“Something’s afoot,” I muttered, my brindle-tinged ears twitching with each whispered speculation drifting through the alleys.

The bunting that once danced in the wind now lay trampled beneath paws of unsuspecting frolickers. The floats, those grand chariots of celebration, bore the scars of claws not set for merry-making. Even the provisions, smells wafting, calling to the salivating masses, had vanished. Pilfered! The town, however, held no panic, no dismay, for they had me—Sue Jangles, detective extraordinaire.

Without a moment mislaid to confusion or a single whine of despair, I sought the council of Ivy, whose Sheba Inu intuition was seldom off-mark. “The saboteur seeks to upend our parade,” I declared, more to myself than to Ivy, for a detective’s soliloquy was as necessary as a good sniff.

“Ah, but why, dearest Sue?” Ivy posed, her coat shimmering like midnight sans moon.

I pondered, my mind as hungry for answers as it was for cheddar chippies. The tale of this Thanksgiving vandal was a knot I yearned to unravel.

With Ivy flanking me, our strides were determined towards Pomeranian Park, the crime scene awaiting our discerning gazes. ‘Twas there we met Sassy, the Siamese, her demeanor as sour as the lemons life sometimes hurls without warning—or proper sugar.

“Such contempt for convivial assembly,” I sighed. “Where might this culprit lurk?”

Sassy’s tail, a plume of conspiratorial knowledge, flicked with annoyance. “Perhaps amongst the cast-aside, those who feel no warmth from hearth or heart.”

I rolled the thought around my mind like a plastic bottle beneath my mighty paws—the delight of it, the sound!

“Exclusion?” My heart sank. I was once the newcomer to this canine Shangri-La, given the cold snout before affections warmed.

Husky’s Hotcakes had a sign unhinged, swinging mournfully in the breeze. The scent—a blend of sabotage with a side of despair. Could the very perpetrator we sought now bemoan his actions within the waft of warm waffles?

Evidently, he could. For it was there, amid the maple syrup and sorrow, we found our villain—a Dachshund named Dexter, despairing in his little bed beneath the counter.

“Why, Dexter?” I asked, my voice as gentle as a pat on the head.

“Never included, always observed,” he lamented between sniffles, not a bark of aggression in his tone.

We locked eyes—his twinkling, perhaps, with the first tears of forgiveness.

The heart of Thanksgiving, I discerned, was not the pomp nor the parade. ‘Twas the gathering, ’twas the unity of all paws and muzzles under the same sky.

With the grace of an outstretched paw, we invited Dexter into our fold, orchestrating a parade where every creature had a place. Perhaps he could helm the hotcake float, we suggested, his sabotaging skills put to more creative use.

And so, the Thanksgiving Day parade shone brighter than any before. Floats rehabilitated, spirits lifted, and even the cheddar chippies found their way home to mama’s bowl. As we marched down Amber Akita Alley, Dexter led the way, a beacon reformed, his little legs a testament to endurance and newfound acceptance.

In the grand scheme, my detective duties had unveiled more than mere mischief—they’d revealed pains that ran deeper than the most bothersome burr in one’s paw. The true essence of Thanksgiving, the core of Pawsburgh’s beating heart, was compassion. And as the light of dusk tiptoed ‘cross our idyllic town, the shadows of our former suspicions disappeared in the glow of collective celebration.

Through the cheers and barks, I, Sue Jangles, savored the greatest treat of all—gratitude, not just for the day, but for every tail-wagging twist hence.

The End.