Hey pal, Lucky here! 🐾 Just a quick tail-wag to say this Thanksgiving I turned detective & rallied the Pawsburg pooch patrol to sniff out the parade saboteur. Found out it was Chili going for unsung artist to parade star. 😎 We tackled misunderstandings & dished out a load of doggy camaraderie – it was a howlin’ good holiday! 🦃 #ThankfulForFurriends #ParadePawty

Lucky 🐶✨

Listen to the story here

Just when you think you’ve got the measure of a town like Pawsburg, it goes and throws a curveball zoomier than any frisbee I’ve ever chased. I’m Lucky, by the way, the notorious Black Mouth Cur with a reputation for being, well, innately exceptional at sniffing out trouble – and this Thanksgiving, let me tell you, my snout was overwhelmed.

It all started with the turkey. Yes, our parade mascot, a plump, feathery float that bobbed down Whippet Way like a buoy at sea, had suddenly deflated faster than my owner’s mood when I add a little bass to the evening serenade. It lay there, slumped and sad, an apt metaphor for our spirit.

But I digress.

There amidst the chaos of droopy garlands and scattered drumsticks, my fellow canines and I, from Dachshund Dale to Chestnut Cocker Courtyard, convened. The sheer audacity! Someone was attempting to ruin the annual Thanksgiving Day parade, and the culprit’s scent was as weak as their moral fiber.

“We need a plan,” I woofed to my assembled comrades, who all nodded, tongues lolling with determination. After delegating the whippets to scout with their unsurpassed speed and entrusting the sturdier breeds with float-reconstruction duties, our adventure into the unknown began.

Our journey was blunder-filled to say the least. We dashed to Bark-n-Bite Bistro, where the gravy boat had mysteriously vanished. Who steals gravy? That’s practically sacred. Miss Maple, the beagle with a nose for gourmand delights, had her paws full trying to calm the chef, who was stirring an empty pot and howling lamentations to the kitchen ceiling.

At The Woofy Bakery, I sniffed out crumbs leading like a trail to fairy tales of old—a trail that ended at a very guilty-looking terrier with cookie residue on his snout. A case of mistaken identity if there ever was one.

The real sabotage, however, was deeper, more conniving. But in the comedy of errors we called investigation, we encountered heartening camaraderie. Even through our mistakes, the spirit of Thanksgiving began to infuse us. Saving the parade became less about the fanfare and more about us dogs being thankful for, well, each other’s blunders.

Until, hidden behind Canine Couture Clothing—a store I usually avoid for its proclivity to garb free spirits like myself in houndstooth—we found a shivering Chihuahua named Chili. Dressed as a hobo.

Chili, the black sheep of Pawsburg, had felt left out of the festivities year after year, his creativity and contributions to the community gone unnoticed. His plan had been to cancel the parade in a fit of unnoticed genius.

The revelations came out in a cascading flow of comedy. Chili’s antics with the floats were supposed to be performance art, his impromptu fiesta in Terrier Tacos was an act of immersive theater. The townsfolk had reviewed his art, it seemed, with misunderstanding rather than applause.

The thing about us dogs is, we don’t hold grudges. Well, except against squirrels and postmen, but that’s a story for another day. We invited Chili to lead the parade, alongside me and Piggy, of course. Can you imagine that—the hobo had a flair for design that put those poodle Parisian couturiers to shame!

As the parade marched on, now teeming with new floats sporting a ‘Chic Chihuahua’ touch, the town barked and cheered. Turns out, gratitude tastes better than any cookie I’ve dreamt of, and feels warmer than any sun-soaked car ride.

As we dogs frolicked in unity with Chili in tow, a lesson was buried in our romp—never judge a pooch by its collar. In Pawsburg, inclusivity was perhaps the tastiest dish of all, and friends, let me tell you, it was served aplenty that Thanksgiving Day.

The End.

Share This Story: