Hey Houndster,

Just outsmarted an alien saboteur with a heart of gold, saved our Thanksgiving parade, and reminded Pawsburg what true community feels like. Who needs a turkey when you’ve got a tale of tails to be grateful for? 🐾🦃✨

Tail wags and gratitude,
Harley

Listen to the story here

In the glittering twilight of Pawsburg, as the stars began to freckle the sky above Bichon Boulevard, an air of jubilation laced with a whisper of peculiarity danced through the town. I, Harley, the Golden Yorkie with a zest for life that matched my shimmering coat, sensed something amiss despite the pre-Thanksgiving Day parade cheer.

My friends and I had been looking forward to trotting alongside our intricately designed floats, but this year, a bitter wind blew in from Bloodhound Bluffs that wasn’t just the chill of November—it was trouble. Decorations lay shredded in the streets, a feast worth of food gone missing from the Golden Grub, and reports of Poodle’s Pasta sporting a curiously deflated meatball balloon. It seemed an invader had breached the gates of our enchanted Pawsburg.

A council was promptly called at Kelpie Keys, our town’s most revered meeting spot. Max, his beagle ears bearing the wisdom of many parades past, eyed me knowingly. I’ve never resisted a good mystery, and as I stood, silhouetted by the soft glow from Fetch! Toys and Treats, our furry band of adventurers rallied around.

“There’s an alien, a saboteur among us!” barked Bella, her poodle’s fur puffed in indignation. We all felt the ripple of unease, knowing that our Pawsburg unity faced its greatest test yet.

We leapt into action, paw prints pressing into the soft earth as we scouted for clues. Here a torn scrap of what looked like… was that spacesuit material? There the faintest whiff of roast chicken, which I savored though this time it led not to a treat but to a lead. And finally, the most damnable evidence of all—a gooey trail of something not of our world, certainly not gravy, leading to the bluffs.

My pack reached The Howling Husky Hardware Store, where we found tools mangled in ways no dog could accomplish. Only something with an outlandish knowledge of anti-Thanksgiving mechanizations, it seemed, could conjure up such mayhem.

It was at the edge of despair that I recalled the spirit of our anticipated day of thanks. We were not about to let an extraterrestrial misfit outdo the heart of Pawsburg. With a tail wagging fiercely enough to stir hearts, and possibly a localized weather system, I proposed a plan that was pure Nora Ephron—equal parts audacious, heartfelt, and bathed in the hopeful notion that even the most misfit of aliens could long for a community.

Rather than setting out to confront our invader with snarls and bared teeth, we extended the paw of fellowship. The saboteur, expecting fierce canine resistance, was visibly taken aback by an offering of a tray from Whippet Wraps—though we valiantly omitted any wrap with even a hint of orange zest, in deference to my known aversions.

And there it was, an alien of diminutive stature (since even in a town of dogs, size needn’t equate to the scale of one’s spirit), its two heads bowed in shame. Beneath layers of alien angst, we uncovered a deep yearning to be part of something—something like our parade.

“I ruined your Thanksgiving!” it warbled in a dual-toned confession.

“No, you gave us something more to be thankful for,” I replied, as we led our new ally back into town. “Let’s repair and celebrate—perhaps your two heads are better than one for float designs?”

As the parade commenced, now embodyed with the touch of the otherworldly, Pawsburg swelled with a greater understanding of family, both earthly and interstellar.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Harley,” Max howled, and I wagged in agreement, knowing that although the joy of the parade was great, the joy in our hearts, as we shared it with a strange new friend, was boundless.

The End.

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