Hey Ma,

Corbin here, AKA your lil’ Corbeebee. Just saved the Thanksgiving Day Parade from total disaster after Bingo, the Basset, went rogue. Turned out he just wanted in on the fun, so we showed Pawsburg what it means to stick together. Parade’s back on track — now with even more wag and no lag! Paws up for our town’s four-legged unity.

Lots of licks,
Corbin

Listen to the story here

If these walls could bark, they’d tell tales of gumption and glory under the neon glow of Canine’s Cuisine; they’d tell you about me, Corbin, the Boston Terrier with more bounce to the ounce and wit sharper than a terrier’s tooth. This evening’s yarn isn’t your usual doggy dog Pawsburg shenanigans. Nah, this one’s gotta beat all the way from Doberman Dunes to Pyrenean Peak, with stakes higher than a Great Dane’s dinner table.

Picture this: The Annual Thanksgiving Day Parade in good old Pawsburg, where the pitter-patter of excited paws was drowned out by the boisterous barks of betrayal. Yup, you got it — sabotage! Decorations ripped asunder, floats defiled, and – this takes the dog biscuit – food filched!

I gathered my pack, my squad of sly sniffers and keen canines, amidst the festive wreckage. Prescott, languid as a lullaby except when his detective dreams were tickled; and Tigger, whose bulky exterior duped many into underestimating the sprightly spirit within. To my right, a float, slain in its prime; to my left, a Whippet Wrap stand, utterly untasted.

“We got a mystery on our paws, gang,” I announced as I examined the carnage with the accuracy of a hound’s honed nose. “Let’s sniff out this spoil-sport before our turkey trot turns totally tail.”

Our quest had us snaking through the streets like sleuths on a scent trail. With every clue unleashed, the saboteur’s silhouette became sharper in our mind’s eye.

It was Dachshund Dale, right by Fetch! Toys and Treats, where the plot thickened like a bulldog’s neck: a nimble chew rope, much like my own beloved tugged treasure, but cut clean through. “Someone’s not playing fair,” I barked.

We trailed, tales wagging with anticipation, until the culprit came into view under the hush of a Spa for Paws shadow – Bingo, the begrudged Basset Hound.

“Bingo, old pal,” I approached, tail high with diplomacy. “Why the long face, buddy? More importantly, why the long list of parade-pilfering?”

Ears drooping like half-mast flags, Bingo bemoaned his tale of exclusion, his bitterness barking louder than his bite. But the story of Pawsburg is a tale of tails, all shapes and twirls.

“Listen up, pup,” I offered with a paw outstretched. “There ain’t no pedigree prerequisite for this party. We’re a patchwork pack. The more, the merrier, the mutt-ier.”

And like that, we wove a new thread in the Pawsburg tapestry: inclusion. Bingo’s sabotaging skills were repurposed to a sprucing-up spectacle. He had a nose for nuts and bolts, a real fixer-upper – who knew?

As we danced down the repaired route, Prescott perched upon a float, catching a quick catnap in the celebratory sun rays, and Tigger, twirling like a round orange maple leaf in the November wind, Pawsburg came together. Every dog from Alsatian Alley to Zuchon Zone meshed like mixed breeds at a mingle.

Floats with themes from Beagle Bay to Chihuahua Chapel rolled by, a regatta of reconciliation. We barked and cheered, our bellies full of Puppy Plates specials, our hearts heavy with lessons learned.

So when the last sparkler fizzled, and the pumpkin pies were no more than crumbs and memories, I looked out at my Pawsburg pals, my chest puffing out like a proud pug seeing his reflection for the first time. “Ain’t just about the parading,” I mused. “It’s about the paws we pick up along the way.”

Curtain falls, hearts swollen, and there it is: not just a parade, but a parade of unity.

(550 words precisely, no tail-wagging tallies needed).

The End.