Hey there,

Just finished wrangling the Thanksgiving Troublemaker and turned the whole fiasco into a heartwarming win for Pawsburgh! My corgi instincts led the chase, my paws facilitated a reformed scoundrel’s redemption, and together, we turned the parade into a hymn of unity. Never a dull moment when there’s a mystery a-paw and tails to wag about!

Tail wags and turkey dreams,
Arlo 🐾🦃

Listen to the story here

In the quaint, confoundingly magical town of Pawsburgh, jubilation tail-spanned the streets as we prepped for our annual Thanksgiving Day parade – a cavalcade of delight soon to be thrust into a kerfuffle, I’m afraid. You see, I couldn’t have foreseen that this ol’ Corgi snout, often brushed by the whispered whims of adventure, would sniff out the curious case of the Thanksgiving Troublemaker.

“You sense it too, don’t ya, Arlo?” Trixie’s voice bounced like she’d swallowed a pogo stick. “There’s a scoundrel afoot!”

“Indubitably,” I said, as my metronome-tail took to a somber tempo.

The pilfered pastries from Barker’s Bakery and the severely setback floats did not go unnoticed by my keen corgi eyes, nor did the disarray of our famed Chestnut Cocker Courtyard. The stage was set for a peculiar parade day indeed.

With Jasper’s counsel, “Patience, young wagger—but also haste!” we formed our canine coalition. Doubtless, the caper had a ringleader.

“Someone’s dipping their paws into the wrong dog bowl,” I muttered, leading our motley crew. Through Spitz Spire and past Fetch! Toys and Treats we jaunted, our noses to the cobblestones and our spirits undampened.

As we rounded on Basenji Bay, Trixie let out a yip that could hail a taxi in New York.

“There! On the jetty!” she yapped. And indeed, there sat a morose shadow haloed by the autumn golds and crimsons of Pawsburgh’s sunset—a figure as out of place as citrus on my supper plate.

Marco, Amelia, and Neil, the brave ducks of my repertoire, squawked in my head with the unprecedented zest of explorers sighting the New World.

Approaching cautiously, the scent of smoked salmon heavy in my thoughts, I called out. “Why do you mar the merriment? What has driven you to such dogged deeds?”

The shadow unfurled to reveal a frail Dachshund, his gaze as hollow as the last bark of an old dream. A dog I knew as Oliver, but knew not well.

“Pawsburgh never seemed…to include the likes of me,” Oliver lamented, his voice brittle as a russet leaf.

A revelation frisked me more excitedly than a tail caught in a windstorm. Thanksgiving wasn’t just about the razzle-dazzle of the parade – it was about the hours spent nestled by the fire, the feeling of a full belly from Bark Buffet, and the glimmer in every resident’s eye when they said, “I’m thankful for…”

“Oliver,” I said, heart swelling with a warmth that could roast a Thanksgiving turkey, “each wagging tail in Pawsburgh stands for another who’s got your back. Let’s turn this misdoing into a ‘misdoneright.'”

And so, we brokered peace with an olive branch braided from leash and collar. The embittered pup’s clandestine talent for covert operations made him the perfect planner of parade surprises—this time, of the pleasant variety.

The reformed Oliver, with newfound pep in his step, orchestrated a parade that would be etched into Pawsburgh’s annals. We strutted and sashayed down Main Street, our parade no longer just spectacle, but a paean to kinship, a hymn sung in the key of belonging.

As we gathered ’round, with even Trixie momentarily sedate, and Jasper shedding a slow tear, we feasted under the banner of unity.

And there, in the glow of Thanksgiving, I, Arlo the Corgi, with my rakishly blazed snout, was thankful—thankful for adventure, for smoked salmon still on my breath, and for the curious, heartwarming capers of Pawsburgh.

The End.