Hey Mom & Dad,

Just wrapped up my latest adventure—turned detective to sniff out trouble at the Thanksgiving Day parade in Spencerville. Turns out it was Zibby the Zebra wanting some pals. We turned the parade into a unity shindig, and even the turkey couldn’t steal the show from our new striped friend. Hope your Thanksgiving was as eventful as mine!

Much love,
Coachie 🐾🦃

Listen to the story here

There I was, Coach, the English bulldog—with more wrinkles than a bargain bin sweater—sniffing out treachery in Spencerville thanks to my sixth sense for shenanigans, or maybe it was just my undying love for turkey. My territory usually spanned the blissful confines of Beagle Beach and the occasional indulgence at Fetch-N-Bites, but this Thanksgiving Day sabotage had me wagging down a less-traveled road.

Now, if you’re envisioning some athletic sleuth pooch with a Sherlock Holmes cap, downgrade those expectations to a stout buddy who considers a leisurely trot borderline cardio. I mean, after all, I’ve got the bulk of a seal and the speed of a tortoise in a headwind. My true prowess lay in the heart and the uncanny ability to discern good kibble from bad—let alone the good guys from the dubious ones.

The first sign of trouble wafted over on a chill November breeze—decorations shredded like a beginner’s paper mache project, a faint whiff of jealousy hanging in the air thicker than the scent at Dog-gone Good BBQ. Someone was out to sideline our Spencerville’s Thanksgiving Day parade, and my pals and I were less than amused.

“Rally the troops!” I barked with jowls a-quiver, which in our circle meant assemble the rowdiest band of chums ranging from Halsey, with his silken demeanor, to Gilly, who though small, touted a French accent that could charm the leash off a K-9 unit.

Operation Turkey Trot was underway. I led our brigade with the kind of strategy usually reserved for determining the softest napping spot—cunning, considerate, but mostly conducted while lying down. We scoured White Westie Woods and even dared a paw into the Choco Chihuahua Castle—all the while, keeping a nostril in the air for unsavory scents.

Evidence was aplenty: a footprint here, a mysterious shadow there, and the pièce de résistance—a trail of smuggled drumsticks leading us to the culprit.

“Mon Dieu!” cried Gilly. “It is Zibby, the Zigzagging Zebra!”

Yes, Zibby—a disgruntled zebra, largely unaccustomed to the spotlight, with stripes that screamed “motley” more so than “majestic” and a grip on gratitude looser than a pup’s first baby tooth.

I approached Zibby with a droopy-eyed gaze that could disarm even the most rogue of Roombas. His tale was one of woe; excluded from parade pomp because he was more horse-like than hound, his hooves drumming a lonely beat.

“You may not be a dog,” I pondered aloud, “but you sure know how to doggy paddle against the stream.”

“Why sabotage the parade, then?” my Spencerville chums yapped, their tails caught between indignation and intrigue.

“I just wanted a friend,” whinnied Zibby, his voice barely a neigh above a whisper. “I thought if there was no parade, you’d all have time to trot with me.”

And so, with the generosity that often accompanies the digestion of a hearty holiday meal, we extended a paw—or hoof—inclusion to our sorrowful saboteur. “Join us,” we bayed. “Let’s turn this parade into a spectacle of camaraderie. Ever tried wearing a Pilgrim’s hat? Oh, it’s the cat’s pajamas—or it would be, if cats wore pajamas.”

The Thanksgiving Day parade in Spencerville took to the streets with an added stripe of zest. There was Zibby, hooves flopping along rhythmically, his very presence zapping the affair with jubilation and becoming the face of festivities.

As the day waned and the last balloon settled, we gazed upon the spectacle—floats resplendent, banquets abundant, and a zebra smack in the heart of hound heaven. We’d unfolded a mystery, eschewed growls for grins, and traded animosity for accord. Most importantly, we learned that thankfulness is not just about the gratitude we express, but the way we extend it paw to hoof, snout to snout.

I scanned the horizon with the satisfaction of a pup who’s discovered the chewy core of the ultimate bone, realizing that this place, this Spencerville, it had a magic to it that goes unrivaled. It’s where tales wag on, and every dog—and zebra—has its day.

The End.