Hey Mom,

Just saved our Thanksgiving parade from trouble, turned a rogue mongrel into a parade star. I’m like a detective with a tail; think Sherlock Bones with more drool. Parade’s back on with extra wagging and zero glum pups. Hugs to you, and scratches for me later? 😄

Your loving pooch,
Jaws 🐾

Listen to the story here

Ah, Pawsburg, that quaint little town where the noblest of us with paws reprieve from the often puzzling world of humans, and where I—Jaws, the bulldog with the misleading moniker—live out my curious dual life. My human family calls me loyal; my canine compatriots call me a leader, though truly, I simply relish in the joy of the chase, a good rubber ball at the ready.

But on this brisk November morn, a pall seemed to drape over Spitz Spire. Our annual Thanksgiving Day parade, a spectacle of pomp that even those stout New York parades couldn’t sniff at, faced jeopardy sheerer than Schnauzer Street’s chic salons.

The air was dense with intrigue, as unscrupulous deeds unfolded: decorations demolished, floats flayed, and worst of all, the gastronomic gaiety that awaited us at Chowhound’s Chophouse—gravely pillaged. The town barked in unrest, their whines worrisome whispers against the wind.

“I say,” snorted Caniche, the poodle from Shiba Inlet, her mane meticulously coiffed. “This is an outright monstrous affair!”

“Indeed,” I responded, as I conveniently overlooked yet again my water aversion and strolled out along the beach, mulling over the mystery. The tale was itching behind my furrowed brow, begging for a lead or a scent to track. “This will not stand,” I growled with valor that could inspire a statue, “Not on my watch.”

The clues, as swift as a hare in flight, were scant—until a peculiar trail of half-munched carrots and frayed ropes led my dogged disposition to the remote rear of Paw-lickin’ Pancakes. The culprit, cloaked in shadow, exuded an odor of bitterness as pungent as it was metaphorical.

“Come now,” I coaxed with a finesse amassed from a life of gentle persuasions. “Join us; let us not snarl over scraps of the past.”

The villain—a wiry, neglected mongrel, his name lost to the town’s lips, emerged, eyes wide with wariness mixed with wonder. Was it trust he sought? Companionship? A sliver of sweet pineapple akin to my own longings?

We embarked on a resolution as brazen as it was unorthodox: we felt no desire to banish him, not any of us. We pardoned his misdeeds, shepherded by the hand of understanding, and handed him a badge of honor—a vital role in our remade parade.

And so, as we trotted ‘neath Schnauzer Street’s garlands anew, our unity shone brighter than the bejeweled leash at Canine Couture Clothing. He, once an outcast, now twirled with ribbons and rode atop a float, a moving tapestry that spoke of redemption and shared joy.

The parade pranced forward; a harmony of barks and leaps could have lifted the spirit of any forlorn beast. And the villain? His wagging tail was ample evidence of a heart unshackled; his part in the pageantry was both restitution and acceptance.

At The Canine Café later, as we clinked our water bowls in a toast of gratitude, my mind pondered the folly of solitude. After all, isn’t the wisdom imparted by our adventures worth more than the adventures themselves?

Resting here by my guardian’s feet, I mused upon our tale that Thanksgiving, a narrative deeper than the sand on the beach I adore. It was a testament to compassion, a narrative to be recounted with fervent joy, to remind us that love is a feast—and in Pawsburg, none dine alone.

The End.