Hey Mom 👋,

Tanner the Terrier here, unofficial sheriff of Spencerville. Just wrapped up a wild Thanksgiving case. Someone was trashing our parade, but my squad sniffed out the culprit – Robin was just feeling left out. We patched things up and made her parade leader, turned a potential pup-astrophe into a tail-wagging triumph! Spencerville’s spirit of giving is stronger than ever.

Catch ya later for scraps,

Tanner 🐾🦃

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There I was, Tanner the Terrier, the unofficial sheriff of Spencerville when it isn’t time for naps or snuggles. My world? Pretty much idyllic. Imagine every fire hydrant is free and the belly rubs are endless – that’s Spencerville for ya. But something was off, off like a cat in a dog parade. Thanksgiving was upon us, and some conniving cur was ripping apart our parade preparations.

Here’s the scoop: our annual Thanksgiving Day parade is the cat’s me—pardon, the dog’s bark. But this year, it all went belly up. Decorations torn down, floats looking more defeated than a squirrel at a dog party, and the Furrific Fried Chicken was plucked clean of its goods. Outrageous, right?

Good thing I’ve got a snout for trouble and a pack of pals who can track a scent better than they can lick their own noses. First up, Fat Russell, built like a tank but with a soft spot for cream cheese bagels from The Doggy Bagel Deli. Then there’s Millie, whose royal highness knows how to sniff out a scoundrel with the elegance of a queen. I mean, after all, I couldn’t let the town go bonkers before the turkey carving commenced.

We put our snouts to the ground and our paws on the pavement. Clues were scarcer than a bath-loving cat, but we had a hunch. We sniffed our way from Happy Hounds Dog Walking to The Canine Cafe. No one saw a thing, not even the squeaky toys.

Meanwhile, I philosophized about Thanksgiving, about the gratitude you feel when the dinner’s so good you sleep right through the arguing. I pondered the bigger bone, the reason we wag our tails around the table, and share leftovers with those puppy-dog eyes glued to us.

Finally, we cornered the villain. Robin, a Rottweiler with a mean streak wider than Shepherd Skyline and a taste for drama richer than the biscuits at Whiskers and Wings. Her tail went between her legs when she saw us coming. Can’t say I blame her; we were a pretty impressive crew, even to a parade saboteur.

“You’re in the doghouse now, Robin,” barked Millie, her King Charles hair not even slightly mussed. Fat Russell grumbled agreement, tilting his head like he does when he’s contemplating whether he’s hungry or just bored.

Turns out, Robin felt left out. No one ever included her in the planning, never invited her to taste the dry-rub at Furrific Fried Chicken or model for The Barking Boutique’s fashionable collars. And that’s a feeling that sits in your gut worse than gobbling chocolate.

So, we sat her down. And with the patient tone you use when you’re telling your human that a squirrel is NOT a threat, we conveyed our heartfelt chat. We explained that ruining the festivities wasn’t the way—it’s about being part of the pack.

Taking a page out of some lessons on inclusivity, we did the mushy thing. We invited her to lead the parade. Yes, her. Because isn’t that what Thanksgiving’s about? It’s not about the flashiest float or the juiciest turkey leg, but about setting another place at the table—or another paw in the parade.

The big day arrived, and Robin strutted her stuff, turning that stealthy sabotage energy into something worth wagging about. The parade was a tail-wagging success. We reclaimed the spirit of the holiday: kindness and a heap of fresh gravy on the side.

Lilly wagged her tail so much I thought she might take flight. Even Spencer tried to look modest. Hard for a mayor. But hey, that’s my dad. And me? Well, I felt the warm fuzzies without even having to curl up in a sun spot.

We finished that evening closer than ever, flopped around like a pile of stuffed toys, content in the knowledge that we’d turned a doggone disaster into a reason to give thanks. And friends, that’s what being a top dog in Spencerville is all about.

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