Hey buddy,

Just played hero in Pawsburg’s wildest Thanksgiving tale. Turned a potential parade disaster into a feast of friendship and forgiveness. Now they’re calling me the Hound of Harmony! Parade’s saved, and every pup’s tails are twirling in unison. Can’t wait to tell you all about it over some peanut butter spoons.

Over and out,
Hawk 🐾

Listen to the story here

There I was, a sleek Black Lab named Hawk, the unofficial mayor of Pawsburg, watching this kaleidoscope of a town from the top of Pointer Pier like it was my throne. The Thanksgiving Day parade was in the works, an affair that sent tail wags through time. But something foul was afoot, and it wasn’t just the forgotten fish heads by Basenji Bay.

It started with the ripped streamers at Emerald Eskimo Estuary, a colorful crime, crass and without cheer. My canine instinct, sharper than a hound’s toothache, sense trouble lurking behind the shadows of our dogged delight. And so, with the eternal Sam sleeping off his human toils, I summoned my cronies—Duke, Misty, and Ruffles—to sniff out the scoundrel’s scent.

We had no ride, but why would we need one when we could roam through eras and spaces? Time just a watch with a chewed strap, space an endless yard for the taking. “Time to hit the road,” my thoughts growled, as we vanished in the winds of time, our tails scripting tales in the stars of history, mischief our compass.

We landed first in the bustling Bonaparte’s Paris. “No sniff of the saboteur here,” Duke yapped, his nostrils flaring amid the aroma of revolution. We briefly frolicked in gladiatorial Rome, Mischievous Misty leading a pack of hounds across the Forum, a resounding “No!” to the question, “Is he here?” We even pawed the earth among dinosaurs, Ruffles too distracted by the prospect of the ultimate game of fetch with a bone larger than himself.

Finally, we nosed our way back to the eve of chaos in Pawsburg, where the villain’s trail was fresh. Whispers of a loner dog with a grudge thicker than peanut butter on a spoon—my favorite vice—led us to The Doggy Depot, where the paw prints of malice took form.

“Think, Hawk, think,” my mind thundered as the fury of the tide rushed through my ears. And just as the epiphany struck, the culprit – a scraggly Schnauzer – bolted out from his hideout behind The Tail Wagger’s Tailor. Talk about a buzzkill in fur.

He had his reasons, a backstory dipped in rejection and sour grapes. But as the gang cornered him near the shredded silks of the would-be floats, it wasn’t snarls that greeted him, but an offer of the paw.

“Pawsburg is for all paws, furred, clipped, or not,” I decreed, the salt of the sea seasoning my words. “You could, you know, help us fix these floats. Make it grand, the centerpiece of our Thanksgiving spirit.”

The Schnauzer’s sneer melted as his eyes met mine, the soupy puddles of my soulful gaze drowning his loneliness. Together, we stitched and nailed, patched and painted, all the dogs of Pawsburg pitching in, the dawn breaking just as the last float took shape, grander than any turkey day float deserved to be.

The parade rolled out beneath a banner of unity, paws of every breed marching, barking, laughing. Duke’s trailing scents of the past, Misty dancing through shadows, Ruffles’ tug-of-war with time itself, and me, Hawk, pondering the wonder of our cosmic fire-hydrant—all part of the tale.

As the floats swayed, and the food was shared—vegetables discreetly ignored—there was the Schnauzer, his sabotage surrendered for the joy of inclusion. Our town learned a thing or two about time: It flows like a river, one that leads to healing if you follow its bends.

The Thanksgiving tale of Pawsburg, a tattoo on the bicep of time, was a story of turning villains into friends, of celebrating the every-dog among us. And as the moon rose high, we knew, this wasn’t just a parade. It was a testament to tales that transcend time, tales that live in the heart of every creature who’s known both the leash and the freedom beyond it.

The End.

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