Hey Family 🐾,

Solved the Pawsburg parade mystery and turned a saboteur into a friend! No floats were harmed in the making of this detective tale. Ahem, I mean dog tale. Thanksgiving’s saved, and I’ve got tails—er, tales—for days. Homes for scrappy tales and fuller hearts. 🦴🎈

Licks and wags,
DT

Listen to the story here

I never fancied myself a detective. But when Pawsburg’s parade was on the brink of calamity, I felt the cape of heroism drape upon my back—or at least I would have if I wore capes, which I don’t because they clash with my fur. It was the whiff of misadventure that roused me; that, and Rover’s incessant barking as we stood amid the wreckage of streamers and paw-print balloons on Quartz Qimmiq Quarter.

“DT, can you believe this?” Rover’s tail was a flag of distress. Bella and Max sniffed around, murmurings of disbelief frosted their breath in the crisp morning air.

A growl crept up my throat; our Thanksgiving Day parade was to be a cavalcade of canine camaraderie, and someone was turning it into a dog’s dinner. We’d need to sniff out this saboteur with a nose for justice—and quickly, or there would be no procession of paws prancing proudly. Oh, the parade would go on, if I had to pull every float myself.

I rallied the pack, my colloquial gang of gumshoes, and led them through the decorated streets. Every clue pawed at us led to a dead end, a proverbial cat up a tree. I couldn’t help but wonder if we were chasing our tails, until Max, with a snout for scandal, uncovered a scrap of fabric near Doberman Dunes. It was an unusual pattern, one I’d seen draped over the purchase counter at The Snooty Snout Boutique.

With a few brisk tail wags, I made a mental note of this threadbare breadcrumb. “To the boutique,” I commanded with a Lassie-like resolve. There was still hope to collar this canine calamity.

The Pampered Pooch Salon proved to be our next stop. Earlier destruction had left a silky tail here, yet its owner was missing. With unimpeachable doggedness, Bella sniffed out a blend of shampoo that reeked of nefariousness—clues piling up like bones in a backyard.

Our paws led us to Fido’s Feast, where the air usually heavy with the scent of savory delights was tainted by the sour smell of mischief. The saboteur had been there too, snatching Shepherd’s Shawarma right from under the snouts of honest hounds.

“Why do it?” mused Bella. Her voice was a song, even when laced with lament.

“I think,” I mused in return, lapping up the thought, “it’s a cry for help, dressed as a barking mad banquet burglar.”

Turns out, I was as right as rain on a roof. Our culprit was a scrappy Scruffian named Sid. Overlooked and undervalued, every bark was a plea, every stolen Shawarma a stolen moment of attention.

We found him, this maligned mongrel, at the edge of town, holed up in a makeshift kennel constructed from parade detritus. He cowered like a pup caught with a pilfered slipper.

There would be no snapping, no snarling from me. His ears fell as his gaze met mine; he’d been heard without the need for words. I understood the bite of exclusion, the hunger for friendship that was more satisfying than any treat.

“Oh, Sid,” I said, soft as soufflé, “the parade’s only as grand as its least noticed pup. Won’t you join us?” It’s amazing how a tail’s wag can speak volumes.

Pawsburgh’s Thanksgiving Day Parade became a song of redemption. Side by side we marched, the saboteur now our savior, as he wove and repaired, his tail keeping time with the renewed heart of the procession. We celebrated not just a day, but a newfound symphony of togetherness, where even the fringes were part of the tapestry.

As the twilight gleam kissed my fur that Thanksgiving evening, my thoughts were on the morrow, the stories I’d share with my family about the day gratefulness triumphed. Because deep down, beneath this playful, peanut butter-loving facade, is a Collie who believes the most scrumptious part of any feast is the company it’s shared with.

The End.

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