Hey Mom,

Epic day! Ended up playing detective with the gang, found the parade saboteur (was just a sad pup named Garbanzo). Turned him from party wrecker to headliner, parade’s now a hit, and we’re all about togetherness this Turkey Day. Oh, and I might’ve learned a thing or two about family and pie diplomacy.

Hugs and tail wags,
Little Man 🐾🦃💖

Listen to the story here

The day dawned bright and crispy like a tray of turkey bacon outta the oven. Spencerville was buzzing, and yours truly, Reo the chihuahua, was primed for action, my spots practically quivering with excitement. Thanksgiving Day loomed on the horizon, and Spencerville’s parade was the talk of the tail-waggers.

“Guys, can you believe someone’s trying to rain on our parade? Literally!” I barked out to Jasper, Daisy, and Paco as we convened at Bone Appetit for our morning pow-wow, sipping on frothy puppuccinos.

Jasper, all ears and not much else, perked up. “We’ll sniff ’em out, Reo. Can’t be that hard to track a spoil-sport in a town where even the cats wear collars with bells.”

Daisy, perpetually sunny but nobody’s turkey, nodded. “Let’s dig up the dirt on this scoundrel,” she howled.

While Paco, a tan whisper of a dog who could blend into a butterscotch pudding, added quietly, “Ready when you are, primo.”

With our detective collars on, we trotted through Spencerville, scanning for signs of nefarious doings. We wove through the streets, past The Fetching Feline Emporium where the kitties were too busy grooming to scheme, and The Barking Boutique where the latest in snazzy parade-wear was on full display.

But beneath the sheen of preparations, something ruffled the fur on my back. A string of fairy lights lay in a lifeless heap on Chihuahua Castle’s moat. A “Gobble ‘Til You Wobble” banner hung torn and defeated by South Poodle Pond.

“And look here,” I growled, my paws halting by a deflated float outside Pupperoni Pizza. “Our saboteur is not playing fetch; they’re playing dirty.”

Clues were about as commonplace as a cat in a kennel club, but we were determined. Unbeknownst to me, the key to this canine caper was closer than a flea on a slick fur coat.

Night fell, but the parade was not all that lit up. There, by Western Husky Hill, a shadow slinked—a figure draped in mischief, carting away a crate of pumpkin pies.

“Ready for some heroics?” I whispered to my posse.

With rollicking stealth, we followed the figure, only to uncover the loneliest of hounds, Garbanzo the bloodhound. His droopy eyes spoke volumes of chapters titled ‘Sadness’ and ‘Rejection.’ Apparently, Garbanzo felt more left out than a cat at a dog show.

Instead of a snarl, I offered a paw. “Hey, Garbanzo, how ’bout we turn this mess into a feast? You’re great at deconstructing stuff; help us build the best float.”

His tail, a barometer of mood, tentatively started swinging. With a newfound sense of purpose and belonging, Garbanzo went from party pooper to party planner.

Together, we pieced back the parade, each float prouder than a peacock strutting its techno-colored dreamcoat. The town watched in awe as we led the procession, Garbanzo front and center like the king of canine Thanksgiving.

As we marched on, my thoughts drifted to Chiquita, Colonel, and Angel. Family wasn’t always about proximity; it was about carrying them in your heart with every paw step.

That Thanksgiving, Spencerville didn’t just celebrate with turkey and trimmings; it reveled in the warmth of community, the embrace of the outcast, and the generosity that even the smallest among us can muster.

The parade was a tail-thumping success, each cheer was a note in the melody of inclusivity. It wasn’t just about the float featuring a giant turkey or the acro-cats, but the feeling of paws and hands intertwined.

We dogs understood then—it wasn’t the show that held the magic of Thanksgiving, but the togetherness it fostered. After all, weren’t we all just waiting to be reunited with our families, furry or otherwise?

I, Reo, with my contrasting coat and even more contrasting heart, realized that sometimes the bravest adventures didn’t come from fighting battles, but from inviting the enemy to your table and serving them pie, maybe even a slice of the pumpkin kind.