Hey hooman sidekick! 🐾 It’s me, Nelli—your favorite, fur-covered detective with the wits sharper than a terrier’s tooth! The Pawsburg parade nearly had its tail between its legs, thanks to a heisty hiccup, but guess what? I sniffed out the clues faster than you can say “fetch.” Turned a sourpaw mutt from villain to hero—and saved Thanksgiving! Just another day in the life of a prodigious pointer. Now, who’s up for turkey? 🦃🐶✨ Catch ya on the barkway, Nelli.

Listen to the story here

In the paw-pattering heart of Pawsburg, just as the November chill began to whisk through Weimaraner Woods, a caper as curious as it was cunning threatened our storied Thanksgiving Day parade. Just when the maples were shedding their fiery mantles and the air was scented with the promise of turkey and trimmings, calamity crept into our midst, sly as a cat—which, I assure you, is merely an expression around here.

I’m Nelli, by the way—a pointer of some renown, and not merely for my knack at treeing a squirrel or two. You see, intrigue unfolds like a dog unfurling from a nap, and I have a nose for both.

The parade, an effervescent swirl of floats and feasts, had been our pride since, well, forever. But that year, something turned sour, and I don’t mean the Sniffer’s Sandwiches’ day-old bread. Decorations were shredded, floats foundered, and to everyone’s horror, Dog’s Delicacies faced a heist most vile: every last savory chicken bit vanished!

“It’s like, someone’s got a bone to pick with us,” wheezed Max, his furrowed face more wrinkled than usual.

“Dastardly!” chuff-chuffed Bella, her spaniel ears trembling with each syllable.

Led by yours truly, we formed a sleuthing pack, each dog with a skill sharper than the last. Max, armed with historical yarns, could sweet-talk any streetlamp—yes, they talk in Pawsburg—into illuminating the past. Bella, earnest and buoyant, canvassed the youths—you know, puppies full of gossip and germs—while I, Nelli, orchestrated our symphony of clues.

Into Onyx Otterhound Oasis we crept, our paws more silent than the fall of an autumn leaf—the kind I adore chasing, mind you. And there, in the dusky shadows, lingered a figure as lonesome as forgotten chew-toy.

“Wh-who’s there?” I barked, every hair on my back bristling tighter than the elastic on the Canine Couture Clothing’s latest fashion phenomena.

A low growl whistled through the Oasis like the last biscuit rolling off the table, unreachable, desolate, and it dawned on me. This was no villain of malice, but a creature scorned, cast aside like an out-of-favor toy.

“You ruined everything!” the mysterious figure spat, their voice hoarse as a hound dog’s drawl.

We leaned in closer—a ragged mutt with a patch over one eye, a coat that had seen better days and a heart, I suspected, fractured by many more.

“Why?” Bella asked, her head cocked to one side—an international sign of canine confusion.

“Excluded,” the mutt grunted, a single word that echoed the pain of dozen lonely nights.

A fleeting feeling of frustration flared within me—how easy is it for one to consider the mere revelry and forget the core of such gatherings: thankfulness, the sharing of meaty bones, and the warmth of a packed dog bed.

“We can fix it,” I proposed, certain as the scent of a well-hidden treat. “You have a talent for creating chaos; what say we direct your flair towards flair?”

The mutt blinked, as if seeing the Opal Pomeranian Park’s sunlight for the first time.

In true Pawsburg spirit, we unleashed a spectacle that Thanksgiving. Through inclusivity and compassion, we transformed bitterness into brilliance, costumes into camaraderie. Our muttered mutt, now master of ceremonies, waved to a crowd wilder than Setter’s Steakhouse’s steak night.

As we paraded down the central barkway, beneath fluttering banners and hearts both thankful and full, I realized, with a wry smile fit to out-quip any Woody Allen protagonist, every dog indeed has its day—even in vengeance, perhaps especially so.

The End.