Hey Sophie,

Just a heads-up from Mishka, your four-legged detective! I’ve taken up the mantle of peacekeeper this Thanksgiving. Found out who was unstuffing our parade plans, turned a grumpy Gemma into our star float designer, and saved the day. Pawsburg’s never been more united. Miss you, hope you’re devouring good stories like I devour Pancakes – literally!

🐾 Mishka (A.K.A. Sherlock Bones)

Listen to the story here

In Pawsburg, Thanksgiving wasn’t just a feast; it was an extravaganza of epic proportions. It was to be my very first since my human, Sophie, had left for a year-long research trip to the land of humans. I had heard tales of the Diamond Doberman Dunes glittering under the parade lights and the aroma of Shepherd’s Shawarma floating through the Pearl Papillon Promenade. This year, however, our jubilance was jeopardized before it could even commence.

Some malevolent mongrel had been snatching streamers and nibbling through the nibbles. It began when Biscuit found his favorite turkey-shaped float deflated, looking like the aftermath of Thanksgiving rather than the anticipation of it. Then, a tragic trail of shredded tinsel led us to the desolate sight of torn decorations at Pinscher Plaza.

I, Mishka, decided something had to be done, and by “done,” I obviously didn’t mean lying around hoping for a stray Paw-lickin’ Pancake to materialize beside my snout. I rallied the pack, adopting a brisk trot that conveyed a sense of urgency and possibly that I needed the loo.

“Friends,” I barked as I gathered my crew of canine compatriots by the old oak tree, “we have a saboteur in our midst!”

“Who would do such a thing?” whined Bella, the bashful Beagle.

“Who indeed,” I pondered. It was like looking for a rogue needle in a haystack of mostly compliant needles. “We need to find the scoundrel – for the sake of our parade and the spirit of Thanksgiving!”

Our quartet set off, with the detective-like diligence of hounds hunting for a missing bone. Our investigation had more twists and turns than the helter-skelter scarf-knitting of Whiskers when she gets overzealous with her paws.

I led our pack past the Wagging Whisk, employing all our senses; my circle-eyed vision caught the slightest whimsy, Biscuit’s sniffer was so powerful it could detect the faintest aroma of mischief, and Whiskers… well, her cat’s perspective was surprisingly insightful, doubly so since she wasn’t even a dog.

Then, in the frosted air near The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium, we found our first clue: a peculiar set of paw prints, too small for a Doberman, too dainty for a Dane.

“It’s as if the culprit wants to be found,” I mused.

The tracks led us to none other than Gemma, the grey, grizzled Schnauzer, always a paw’s distance from the festivities but never a part of them.

“Gemma? You’re the saboteur?” I asked, tail stilled by shock.

“Grrr… it’s always Gemma the Grump, Gemma the Loner,” she growled before sniffling. “I just wanted to be noticed for once, to be part of something.” Her voice wavered like a puppy during its first howl.

I cocked my head with the wisdom of a creature who had much to learn from humans’ stories. “Thanksgiving isn’t just about floats and food, Gemma. It’s about coming together, paws and all.”

And so, we invited her in, not with scorn but with a wag of camaraderie. We put her insidious ingenuity to good use, fixing the floats with a flourish only a skilled saboteur could manage.

The parade was magnificent, our float gliding through Pawsburg with Gemma riding proudly at the helm, her eyes not circling suspicion but sparkling with acceptance. Amidst the festivities and the chorus of thankful howls, I took a moment to give thanks: for friends, for community, and for turning foes into family, for, in Pawsburg, every dog had its day—a Thanksgiving Day filled with unity, gratitude, and the odd pancake that “accidentally” fell from the table.

The End.