Hey buddy, just a quick update from your furry agent of fate, Karma! 😎 Saved the parade from turning into a doggone disaster. Uncovered a terrier tale of exclusion and flipped it into a Thanksgiving triumph. Now, Pawsburgh is all wagging tails and warm fuzzies. It’s all about inclusion and second chances in this bark-tastic story. Pass the gravy! 🐾✨ #KarmaKleansHouse

Listen to the story here

As I, Karma of the blue and white coat and the diamond-shaped mark, galloped down Affenpinscher Avenue under a cotton candy sky, a scent of mischief scratched at my nose “like a cat on a new sofa.” Pawsburgh, this town of tail-waggers and four-legged friskiness, was afoot with thanksgiving fervor, but there was trouble brewing on the brindle horizon.

You see, among the excitement of the annual Thanksgiving Day parade, someone was turning the fervor into a fiasco. A soupy fog—thicker than the gravy at Dachshund’s Deli—shrouded the revelry in unease. Decorations were shredded like confetti in a blower, floats bore scars of mischief, and worst yet, chunks of the roasted chicken, which very much held my culinary affections, had vanished into some wretched black hole.

“The turkey’s up,” barked my dignified Beagle friend, clearly more Watson than Holmes, as he twitched his snout at the pile of glittering tinsel laying in sorrowful defeat.

“It’s not about the turkey,” I pondered aloud; my energy was boundless, but my heart was baffled. The scent whispered a tale of bitterness, and we trotted and sniffed our way to unravel it, my enthusiasm Dalmatian-spotted with concern.

Journeying from the bustling Barking Brunch to the trendy trappings of The Barking Boutique, we unearthed the subtle clues—a paw print too large, a strand of fur too coarse for the town’s well-groomed residents.

“The gall,” gasped my old Shepherd pal, wisdom glinting in his half-moon eyes. “To invite chaos to Thanksgiving!

It was then, beneath the sheltering arms of the old elm tree, that I chanced upon Beatrix. A terrier of noir, hiding in the shadow of our sorrowful parade floats, her eyes flickered between defiance and fear.

“My dear Beatrix,” I began, my voice velvet, my manner more gentle than the pull of the tide. “Bitterness is a carrot atop an otherwise succulent meal of life,” I jested, imagining the crunchy orange horror amidst my Sunday feast.”

Beatrix winced, a sob curdling in her stripped throat. “I was forgotten,” she woofed. “Missed off the list, left out like last season’s bone.”

So it was. Our saboteur, fueled not by menace, but misplaced woofing for inclusion.

It struck a chord, and I shared a memory of those beach sunsets, alone save for my shadow and Charlie’s lingering scent.

“What is thanksgiving if not a time to shed the leash of past woes?”

So, we banded—not in tails of confrontation, but in paws clasped in understanding. Beatrix, once lost, could helm the parade. Her talents, like our tails, were not to be tucked between legs in shame but to wag with might.

And so, the parade, once teetering on disaster, rolled out as smooth as a well-heeled trot. Beatrix, at helm, her wag a proud banner; she was the epitome of a reformed reveler. From Rottweiler Ridge to Schnauzer Street, a chorus of barks heralded our unity.

That day, Pawsburgh’s dogs, like a pack of gourmet treats, came in all sorts and flavors, each adding to the feast of togetherness. Even carrots, my nemesis, appeared delightful when shared in the right spirit.

“With Ollie the plucky plush by my side, I gazed at the sea of furry bodies, a smile leads to tail. Pawsburgh had not only hosted a parade but had paraded the very essence of Thanksgiving—a symphony of inclusivity, compassion and a dash of canine-style gratitude.”

And as night beckoned, with stars dotting the heavens like spilled kibble, Pawsburgh settled, its heart full, its belly content, every whisker and snout whispering thanks.

The End.