Hey Mom,

Had an incredible day using my detective sniff to solve the mystery of the sabotaged parade with the gang! Turned out to be Norman, the Scottie, just wanting to fit in. We got him on board, saved the day, and had a feast to rival your chicken ;). Pawsburgh’s Thanksgiving miracle – proof there’s room for every misfit.

Love,
Fina 🐾💖

Listen to the story here

Early morning light crept into Pawsburgh like a stealthy hound, bringing warmth to the chilled November air. I, Afina the Pitskie, a magnificent brindle-and-white mishmash of Pitbull and Husky, lay curled up on Bichon Boulevard, my mismatched eyes— one a striking blue, the other a cozy amber—flashed open with purpose. Today was no ordinary day; it was the day of the Thanksgiving Day parade!

As I trotted over to Weimaraner Woods to meet Max, Luna, and old man Walter, the silent whispers of the town had already begun to rustle like fallen leaves in the wind. “Have you heard?” “The float!” “Destroyed!” Those snippets of alarm jostled my senses.

“Guys, we’ve got a real Scooby Doo situation on our paws,” I announced with a hint of Kaling-esque flair as I approached my friends. “And I’m not talking about a dressing-up scarefest; someone’s ruining our parade!” Max wagged his tail rapidly, Lunas’s whiskers twitched with intrigue, and Walter… well, Walter just blinked slowly, his wisdom an impenetrable fortress.

We set to work, our noses to the ground as we weaved through the clues that littered Setter Shore. Pom’s Pies—a culinary wonder—a pie was missing, its crumbs a trail only a keen-eyed detective like myself could decode. The restless spirit within me, usually soaring through open fields, was now hunkered down in determination as we sniffed our way through Spaniel Spaghetti and Setter’s Steakhouse, gathering hints like squirrels prepping for winter.

As evening draped Pawsburgh in a cloak of twilight, we stumbled upon the vandal, hooded and hunched, in the shadows of The Wagging Tail Bookstore, clearly plotting their next misdeed.

“Aha! We’ve sniffed you out!” I barked, a tinge of victory in my voice.

But the figure before us deflated like a punctured balloon, revealing themselves to be Norman, the Scottie dog with loneliness fogging his eyes.

“I just… I wanted to be a part of something. But nobody ever notices me,” Norman murmured, near tears.

My heart, bolstered by a human-like sense of empathy, softened. “Hey, Norman, look around. We’re all a bit of a quirky mix here, right guys?”

Max bumbled forward, Luna exuded her faux-feline confidence, and Walter nodded so slowly it was like watching paint dry.

I rallied the town. “Norman, you’ve got a knack for elaborate planning. How about you help us get the parade up and running instead?”

Reinvigorated, Norman’s creativity soared. He orchestrated a parade so wondrous, so full to the brim with pomp and pie (courtesy of Pom’s Pies), that the magic of Pawsburgh twinkled like the stars above.

As we paraded down Bichon Boulevard, I—Afina, remember?—couldn’t help but chuckle amidst the applause. Who needed a fanfare when you had a tale of friendship and redemption woven right into the festivities?

Thanksgiving, I realized as the parade came to a close at The Canine Cafe with a feast even I had to admit beat mom’s stolen chicken, wasn’t about showcasing the biggest float. It was about opening your circle wide enough to welcome even those who stumbled in the dark.

There we sat—Max, Luna, Walter, Norman, and I—all of us different, all of us thankful. And I, in my Kaling-ish inner monologue mused, “Perhaps, just perhaps, in a town like Pawsburgh, every underdog has their day.”

And let me tell you, even the wind rushing past me couldn’t compete with the rush of that revelation.

The End.