Hey Jamie,

Tucker here, lead snout on the mystery of the tarnished Turkey Day. Rounded up a pack of tail-waggin’ sleuths to sniff out the saboteur and turned a down-in-the-dumps Pekingese into the parade’s top dog. Thanksgiving’s saved and there’s a new wag in our crew! 🐾🦃

Licks and wags,
Tuck

Listen to the story here

In the dim glow of the early Pawsburgh morning, where shadows danced like specters between the quaint doghouses of Affenpinscher Avenue, I found the first clue—a gnawed piece of garland lying forlorn at my paws. Tucker the Labrador, that’s me, not usually one for holiday ornaments unless there was a chance for a good, satisfying chew, but this felt ominous, it did.

Bloodhound Bluffs stood watchful and silent in the distance, like the town’s guardian, as I ruminated on the recent spate of holiday sabotage. The Thanksgiving Day parade was a mere dog biscuit’s throw away, and the air should have been filled with the delicious scents of Barking BBQ, but all one could sniff now was the bitter aroma of a mystery.

Now, as I trotted along the Samoyed Square with my expressive eyebrows knit together in concentration, I couldn’t help but recall the delectable morsels from Mastiff’s Meals, the very place where morsels had begun vanishing like a ghost in a fog. “Tucker, ol’ boy,” I muttered to myself, “it’s time to sniff out more than just stolen treats.”

Max, the beagle, and Bella, the quick-pawed terrier, joined me, forming a sort of impromptu investigation troop. We went incognito, our keen noses closer to the ground than our reputations as carefree canines.

“Something’s afoot,” I growled low, as I led us towards The Howling Husky Hardware Store, the source of my gut’s uneasy rumbling. Max’s nostrils flared with each sniff, while Bella, well, she was just happy for another chase, even if it was wild geese we were after.

A trail of clues – a paw print there, a mysterious hair here – led us to the most unexpected of revelations; the saboteur was none other than Percy, the Pekingese from the outskirts of Pawsburgh. The pup was more outcast than outlaw, always skulking at the edge of joy, never let in, never seen in the sunny glow of companionship.

“You’ve got it all wrong,” Percy hissed when we confronted him, the anguish painted in his tiny, twitching whiskers. “I’m not a villain because I enjoy it; I did it because I was tired of being ignored.”

And there it was, the meaty heart of the matter. Percy wasn’t the first to feel like a wag-less tail in this town of bustling tales. Like an uneaten vegetable, he was out of place among the traditional feast of companionship and revelry. And didn’t we all just crave a bit of the proverbial steak?

We decided, unilaterally—Max, Bella, and I—no dog should endure Thanksgiving, let alone any day, without a pack. Our hearts, once fueled by the adrenaline of the hunt, now expanded with something softer, warmer, like a hearthrug by a roaring fire.

With each of us lending a paw, Percy was put to task—a master of logistics, organizing the parade. As I watched a smile bloom on that tiny, fluffy face, it seemed even more vibrant than the full moon that night. The reformed parade brimmed with camaraderie, even the vegetables were consumed with gusto.

As the night concluded, our tails creating a symphony of wagging under the starry Pawsburgh sky, I realized that on this Thanksgiving, our pack had grown. We didn’t just solve a mystery; we healed a spirit. Jamie would scratch me behind the ears for this, I thought. Needless to say, the blue rubber ball felt extra bouncy the next day.

This was the true essence of Thanksgiving, not just for humans, but for dogs too. And the tales of Pawsburgh would wag on, with one more laugh shared, one more tail weaving through the joyous tapestry of our small, magical world.

The End.