Hey there 🦊,

Just a quick tail shake – today’s parade turned into a whodunnit caper! Yours truly, Foxee Lee, teamed up with Rascal and Barnaby to sniff out a saboteur who wanted to turn our Thanksgiving bash into a doggone disaster. But with some wise whiskers and a dash of bulldog charm, we uncovered the culprit, turned a foe into a friend, and saved the day. Parade’s back on, the spirit of unity is stronger than ever, and Pawsburgh is wagging in harmony. Cheers to the power of paws and pals! 🐾

Catch ya on the flip side,
Foxee Lee

Listen to the story here

As the first amber hues of dawn kissed the rooftops of Pawsburgh, I, Foxee Lee Rodriguez, adjusted my jaunty collar and faced the chill in the air with a snort of anticipation. Today wasn’t just any day—it was the day of our grand Thanksgiving Day parade, a spectacle of camaraderie and turkey-shaped floats that spun tales of unity and celebration. Yet even as I admired my reflection in a puddle, looking every inch the bulldog bon vivante, a ripple of unease stirred through Shar-Pei Shores.

“Heads up, Foxee,” barked Rascal the Maine Coon, materializing like a ghost from the mist, his whiskers bristling with urgency. “Someone’s taking a bite out of the parade — and it ain’t the kind for chewing.”

Without hesitation or further ado (you’ll hardly find either in a place like Pawsburgh), we set forth, a curious yet determined duo augmented by the floppy-eared arrival of Barnaby. Our paws padded across Quartz Qimmiq Quarter, each canine resident we passed whispering tales of the mischief afoot.

“Did you hear?” they murmured. “The pumpkin float’s been gashed—” “The turkey feathers are plucked—” “The cranberry sauce’s been swiped!”

Each snippet sent ripples of concern through my coat of black and brindle. It was becoming clear; our yearly parade was under threat from the shadows.

Upon reaching Pooch’s Pub, where tail-wagging normally danced to the tune of clinking bowls, only gloom greeted us. It seemed someone had soured the broth of celebration with their bitterness.

“The plot, like an unfinished bone, thickens,” I mumbled, more to myself, but Barnaby caught the sentiment, his ears twitching in agreement.

“We sniff out the villain,” declared Rascal, his feline decisiveness as sharp as his claws. “The right question tends to unlock more than the sharpest collar-key.”

And right he was. Our interrogation took us weaving through Shiba Inlet, collecting fragments of evidence with the finesse of a suit tailored to within an inch of its life. Our heartbeats matched the staccato rhythm of paws on cobblestone, our breaths weaving a song with the rustling leaves.

The plot, as they are wont to do, twisted. Outside The Snooty Snout Boutique, between rows of feathered boas and rhinestone leashes, we stumbled upon a crumpled figure: a small terrier, shivering with resentment.

“It’s a cold world for a pooch who’s never felt the sun of inclusion,” he muttered, clinging to a stolen wreath like a lifeline.

I knew that for all my strutting, all my autumnal acrobatics, the true test lay in moments of choice, the silent beats between bark and bite.

“You’re an artisan, mate,” I declared, extending a paw. “This energy, this…zeal. It should stand tall in the parade, not lurk in its alleys.”

The terrier’s gaze flickered with hesitance, then hope. The saboteur swayed, then stood with us among friends.

With quick paws and quicker wit, we marshaled our band of merry canines, repurposed unruly skill into parade pride, and restored the heart of the celebration: the unity of us all, tails to snouts.

And as the Thanksgiving Day parade rolled on, resplendent with the terrier’s handiwork, Pawsburgh shimmered under the banner of camaraderie. From Chowhound’s Chophouse to Fetch! Toys and Treats, our town thrummed with life — every dog a hero, every heart aglow.

Sitting among my peers, savoring a steak cut free of citrus tyranny, I marveled at the power of inclusion.

“This, my friends,” I toasted, “This is Thanksgiving.”

And the parade, transforming from a target of subterfuge to a symbol of unity, became not just Pawsburgh’s finest hour, but our most profound lesson: that the true essence of Thanksgiving is not the spectacle, but the spirit.

The End.