Hey Mom,

Turns out I’ve been quite busy being the tail-wagging detective of Spencerville! Our Thanksgiving parade was almost ruined by mysterious mishaps, but with a nose for justice and a pack of loyal pups, we sniffed out the culprit—a sad greyhound just yearning to fit in. Instead of growls, we offered a paw and together we saved the day, making the parade a paw-some tribute to teamwork and second chances. Spencerville sure knows how to turn a ruff start into a fairy-tail ending!

Hugs and head pats,
Rousey 🐾

Listen to the story here

Days slouched comfortably into weeks here in Spencerville, where the rustling leaves welcomed the promise of Thanksgiving—my favorite time of year. I’m Rousey, by the way—just a fawn English Mastiff with a knack for sniffing out more than the usual treats. I padded along the maple-lined streets, nosing the wind for the day’s gossip. The town buzzed in anticipation of our annual Thanksgiving Day parade—a celebration of fellowship, gravy bones, and the infamous turkey-shaped float that bobbed down Main Street last year like a majestic, stuffing-filled zeppelin.

This year, however, a current of discord unraveled the town’s fabric. Each morning brought tales of decorations torn asunder, magnificent floats marred by unsightly scratches, and food—oh, the food!—mysteriously vanished. A bitter aroma of mischief tainted the air, so tangy it could make you forget the scent of Pupsicle Palace’s famed Bacon Blizzard.

I called upon the coalition of furry sleuths—my counterparts in shenanigans and mischief, though today, we were agents of peace. We met on the sly under Retriever River’s old bridge, the one whose echoes could tell your secrets to the wind if you weren’t careful.

“Friends,” I began, letting the title sit for a moment with the weight it deserved. “This villainy strikes me as an affront not just to turkey floats but to the very essence of this season. This, my compatriots, is a matter of Spencerville honor!”

A chorus of barks and tail wags accented my little speech. Eyes bright with the fire of justice—or maybe just the excitement of being involved in a real caper—we set out to follow a trail only we could sense.

The clues led us through the shimmery grass of Labradoodle Lake, down Tan Dalmatian Desert’s vast expanse of golden sand, and into the cozy corners of Bark and Bites. Our noses were relentless, charting a cartographic masterpiece of scents and suspicions.

That’s when we saw her—a sleek greyhound whose name we’d never learned, though whispers told of a tail taut with troubles past. She lurked in the shadows by Canine Couture Clothing, eyes casting long gazes at the parade floats across the street. The very floats that seemed less grand each day.

Misunderstood and misplaced, the greyhound’s sadness circled her like a moat. Could it be that the saboteur we hunted was driven not by malice but by an ache to belong? The thought settled in my heart with the weight of unsent Christmas cards.

Gathering the collective courage of my furry fellowship, I approached her with an outstretched paw. “Friend,” I ventured, “this feast, this parade, it’s for all of us. Your tal

ents are as needed as the northern star is by a lost sailor. Your creativity could lift these floats from fine to fabulous!”

You could hear the heartbeats around us; anticipation hung heavier than winter mist. To my immense joy, a spark kindled in her eyes. An olive branch, accepted.

Together, we worked. The greyhound’s grace turned ragged wings to streamlined marvels. Our paws—and her deft touch—restored the parade’s splendor. The Thanksgiving Day parade bloomed under Spencerville’s crisp autumn sky, a mosaic of unity and a testament to second chances.

The greyhound led the parade, her head held high, surrounded by an eclectic cavalcade of Spencervillians. We barked, the children cheered, and even the grown-ups (imaginary as they may be) wore smiling eyes above their knitted scarves.

The true spirit of Thanksgiving unfurled that day, a banner woven of companionship and the quiet understanding that home isn’t a place—it’s a feeling. And, I suppose, a table laden with scraps beneath it.

As the sun dipped low, the villain—now the hero—curled beside me, her coat shining in the twilight like an ember. “Thank you, Rousey,” she whispered.

I gave a soft nuzzle to her ear. “No, my friend. Thank Spencerville, where second chances bloom like daisies and everyone finds their place at the table.”

The End.