Hey Mom,

Crazy day! Turned from a detective into a parade hero in Pawsburgh. Chased clues, found the perp was just a lonely pooch needing friendship. Spun a tale of mischief into one of thanks and teamwork. Everyone’s tail’s wagging, even the bad guys’. Parade’s a hit, and we’re all munching on pie – even got Bernard to lead the show! Detective work is rough, but today was paw-sitively heartwarming. 😊

Love,
Charlie B.

Listen to the story here

In the dim lights of the pre-dawn morning, nestled amongst the soft rustling leaves of Pawsburgh, something sinister shuffled along Whippet Way. You see, Pawsburgh doesn’t quite gleam without a touch of mystery, and on this particular morning, the mystery was slathered on thicker than peanut butter on a slice of Pom’s Pies.

It was I, Charlie B., esteemed detective and adventurer extraordinaire—a caramel-coated canine with a thirst for justice and a nose sharply attuned to the whiff of wrongdoing. With the Thanksgiving Day Parade at paw’s reach, I could hardly snooze through such excitement, but this mess… ah, it was the furthest thing from the spirit of the holiday.

Props toppled over, paw-crafted turkeys unceremoniously plucked of their feathers—how woeful! Meanwhile, the townsfolk yapped in worry, circling around like lost puppies in a park. It was truly a horror scene cut straight out of “The Hound of Music: The Barkening.” But as Uncle Mel used to howl, “If things are too quiet, turn up the volume!”

“Quiet everyone!” I barked. “Let’s not piddle in despair just yet. There’s a scoundrel to snout out.”

We followed the trail of destruction, our pack of detectives united in furry resolve. The clues led us to Setter Shore, where the glistening waves whispered secrets to those who dared to listen. It was eerily still, as though the atmosphere was holding its breath—like the calm before the storm in the swampy lands of Baskervilles.

The sabotage smelled of sophistication—an opponent with a taste for dramatics. Someone who knew the ins and outs of Pawsburgh; someone with access to every doggy door in town.

We discovered the last piece of the jigsaw puzzle beneath the glow of the half-eaten moon at Collie’s Cuisine. A figure: elusive as a background bark, secretive as a buried bone, and—judging by the whimper—nursing a hurt deeper than splintered dewclaws could indicate.

“Reveal yourself, marauder!” I challenged, with my hackles aloft and a flourish worthy of a final act.

And there, emerging from the shadows, was the villain—a grizzled old English Sheepdog named Bernard, his eyes glossed with unshed tears and a snout smudged with Culprit Cherry Pie.

“Bernard?!” My tail faltered in mid-wag. “But why, old chum? You’re a pawfront pillar of Pawsburgh!”

The tattered dog sighed, his bark a soft growl. “I… I’ve felt forgotten, Charlie. No invites to frolics, no nods at the noodle bar… I wanted to be seen. Even if it meant being seen as the bad dog.”

“Oh, Bernard…” I approached him, my paw extended in friendship rather than accusation. “In Pawsburgh, every dog has its day. Let us show you the true meaning of Thanksgiving.”

In a twist, as heartwarming as fresh biscuits from The Woofy Bakery, we decided—instead of hostility, we’d offer a pawsitive outcome. We enlisted Bernard in the parade’s redecoration, utilizing his knack for craftiness (albeit previously for carnage) for the greater good.

The turkey float regained its feathers, now plusher than before, adding an air of triumphant flare to the front of the line. Bernard, once the saboteur, stood proudly atop it, waving his paw like a reformed king of carnivals.

Together, we embraced the genuine spirit of the Thanksgiving hoedown, sharing stories and slivers of Pom’s Pies—with Bernard’s favorite, Culprit Cherry, voted the highlight.

As the parade danced through Pawsburgh amidst cheers and tail-wags, I reflected on our adventure. Perhaps the greatest horror is a heart closed to change, while the finest stories come when we open our world to the ones who lurk in the shadows.

“And so, my human,” I narrated into the twilight, “our tale draws to a close. For in Pawsburgh, even the scariest stories have tails that wag toward the warmth of home, hearth, and hound.”

The End.