Hey Dad,

Just saved Thanksgiving in Pawsburgh. Unmasking the parade villain turned him into our top event planner! All in a day’s work for your son, Hercules. Parade’s back on, and I’m now officially a hero and a diplomat. 🦴

– Teddy Bear

Listen to the story here

There I was, Hercules, the beefiest, red-and-white bulldog you’ve ever laid eyes on, strolling down the pristine walkway of Schnauzer Street, my leather-chew toy triumphantly clenched between my jowls. The sun cast a golden hue over Pawsburgh, painting the town amber — an autumnal masterpiece, all set for a Thanksgiving parade. But something was amiss, and my nose wasn’t just picking up the tantalizing scents from Chowhound’s Chophouse.

The bunting that should have been fluttering like Margaux’s heart when I strut past had been torn down. The turkey float outside The Canine Cafe was deflated, like my spirits when faced with a plate of broccoli. Flavors of festive feasts were missing, stolen, leaving behind a trail of desolation. And wouldn’t you know it, Pawsburgh’s day of thanks was under threat by a shadowy figure slinking behind Quartz Qimmiq Quarter.

“Guys, huddle up!” I barked. There were nods all around from Boss, Coco, Tank, and the crew. I squinted my mismatched eyes; this was no time for a playful park romp. “This Thanksgiving parade saboteur is messing with the wrong bulldog… er, I mean, dogs.”

A chorus of determined woofs echoed as we split up, each nose and tail on high alert. I lumbered toward Barking BBQ, sniffing out any whiff of a clue. The mystery creep had a beef with Thanksgiving, and somehow, I’d turn it back into a feast.

“Guys! Look at this!” Beatzie’s yip snapped my focus as he brought over a half-gnawed turkey leg, the calling card of our villain. And oh, by the savory smells of it, this bird had seen better days. “Herc, I think the scoundrel’s been sneaking snacks from Terrier Tacos too.”

Jaws dropped. A heinous crime. Unforgivable. This lowlife had played his dirty paws all over town.

“Fine,” I grumbled, the investigative wheels creaking into motion in my bulldog brain. “Let’s jet to Pointer Pier. The thief won’t escape the keen eyes of the toughest pooch in town. Not on my watch.”

The stars aligned—or maybe it was just the reflection in my fantabulous two-toned eyes—as I spotted something: a faint light bobbing at the end of the pier. It was him! My pals flanked me, a squadron of avenging hounds.

“Hey, you, party pooper!” I called out. He halted, caught in the act, his guilt as unmistakable as a cat at a dog birthday bash.

To our surprise, it was just Wally, the weimaraner whose idea of a good time was a marathon nap session.

“Wally? You’ve got to be kidding me,” I deadpanned. The crew tilted their heads in unison. My nine-strong crew of canine companions circled Wally, who was practically shaking in his fur.

“I… I just wanted to be part of something,” Wally stammered, eyes downcast. “But no one ever thinks the quiet guy wants in on the fun…”

I sighed a big, bulldoggy sigh. There it was, the old “left-out” motif. It was softer than a bully stick on a summer day and twice as chewy.

Alright, it was time to flip the script, à la Mindy Kaling: color me compassionate. “Buddy,” I said, trotting up to Wally, “Thanksgiving’s not just about the parade pomp and overeating until we need our tummies rubbed. It’s about including everyone. Even… parade saboteurs.”

And just like that, with a tilt of my glorious head and a wag of my formidable tail, the pact was sealed. The villain was no more, but our newest parade planner? He was just getting started.

By the time the sun dipped beneath the horizon, Pawsburgh rivaled the Thanksgiving Day parades of human lore. Wally won over the town with his charm and free Terrier Tacos. The parade rolled out in a blaze of glory, complete with Boss and Lulu leading atop the now re-inflated turkey float.

There we stood, tails wagging in the breeze, our hearts fuller than our bellies for once. As the town bustled with joy and laughter, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride, thankful not just for the triumph but for the lesson learned: sometimes, a little kindness and understanding can turn even the sourest pilferer into a parade’s pièce de résistance.

And if that’s not a Thanksgiving miracle, well, I don’t know what is.

The End.