Hey hooman,

Today’s caper? I went from detective to diplomat! Turned a parade pilferer into a party planner and unified Pawsburg with guts, guile, and a hedgehog sidekick. Tailed it with turkey and tales. Pawsburgh tough, Stewie love. 🐾

– Stewie, P.I. (Paw Investigator)

Listen to the story here

Beneath the tattered banner of what once read “Happy Thanksgiving,” I, Stewie, with a worn-out hedgehog clutched in my jaw, surveyed the scene. Pawsburg lay in delightful disarray, a quirky remnant of human folly turned doggy utopia. But today, something was amiss.

Only yesterday, Samoyed Square brimmed with barks of excitement, Cavalier Cove hummed with rehearsal tunes, and over Briard Bridge, floats ambled, showcasing tableaus of canine history—there was Balto’s sled and Lassie’s well. All poised for Pawsburg’s parade, a celebration that overshadowed the idea of leftovers for once. Today, havoc reeked.

I trotted past Rottweiler’s Ribs where the delectable smell of smoked meat should’ve been wafting. Instead, there was emptiness, save for a single, ill-fitting carrot. I curled my lip. Veggie sticks – accomplices to disappointment.

As the town’s self-appointed investigator (a title I gave myself during a particularly thrilling squeaky-toy interrogation), I sensed my expertise was needed. My ears pricked to the susurration of hidden clues; my nose, twitched to the scent of betrayal.

A ripple of commotion drew me to the Groom Room where my fellow Pawsburghians gathered. Among them, Duchess – the Great Dane – towered with noble confusion, and Mitzy, the Chihuahua/wolf, was bravado personified, her bark carrying enough accusation for ten dogs.

“Who would do this?” whispered Duchess.

“Mischief smells like opportunity,” I pondered in reply, a phrase I felt worthy of a detective novella.

I led the pack through the town, amassing hints like a philatelist hoard a rare stamp. The trail of breadcrumbs (literal crumbs, courtesy of Fido’s Feast) led us to the outskirts, to a lair hidden beneath the foliage – which did wonders for my coat’s vibrancy, I’ll tell you.

Within, we found our villain, a scrappy terrier known as Scruff. In the shadows his figure shook – not with rage, but an odd kinship with the cold. He’d felt left tethered outside the warm glow of Pawsburg’s fervor.

“Oh, the culinary irony,” I thought, as I eyed the stolen goods: Cheese wheels and chicken drumsticks piled in the corner, yet the thief himself looked half-starved for attention.

“Festivals aren’t just about parades and feasting,” I declared, adopting a tone I hoped resembled wisdom. “It’s about inclusivity and sharing warm laps.”

Sounds noble, doesn’t it? Yet, we needed Scruff, not just for the canapés he’d hoarded, but for his spirit, however misguided it may have been.

In a twist of fate or perhaps an enlightened self-interest, we welcomed him. Scruff’s flair for the dramatic turned theatrical, rather than criminal. With tail wags, we paraded back to Pawsburg.

Mitzy took to rewiring the Christmas lights -yes, we used them for every occasion- while Scruff’s nimble paws salvaged decorations. The Great Dane carried salvaged floats singlehandedly, or single-pawedly, I should say.

The parade was more than joyous with its new-found heart. We marched down the rubble-strewn streets with a different kind of victory, that which one savors without eating.

As the sun bowed out, casting an amber spotlight over our shindig, I savored a morsel of turkey, a true ‘accident’ from the baker’s platter I needed no more.

In aftermath of our apocalyptic rebirth, we redefined Thanksgiving. It became our story embroidered on the tapestry of our communal den – Pawsburg. The town, licking its wounds and its chops, stood unified, and all the richer for having added one more to its ranks.

And, as I settled into the kindly old baker’s lap, I recounted our tale, infusing a bit of heart into a world that, for all its brokenness, never felt so whole.

The End.