Hey there,

Just saved the Thanksgiving parade in Pawsburg. Turned chaos into camaraderie and an outcast into a parade superstar. Who knew a Frenchie could wrangle wayward planets and friendship alike? Catch you on the cosmic flipside for turkey and tails!

Fly high,
Coco 🚀🐾

Listen to the story here

In the twinkling cosmos of Pawsburg, a tail-wagging corner of the galaxy, there I was, floating like a brindle comet with ears sharp enough to slice through the Milky Way’s buttery folds. The annual Thanksgiving Day Parade was upon us, and the town bustled with excitement, or at least it did until the incidents began, one after another, much like my rejection of citrus treats—quick succession and irrefutable.

“My friends,” I barked, rallying my varied and valiant crew beneath the glinting stars of Cavalier Cove, “We face a caper most foul, and it’s not Lola’s hidden stash of fishy treats.”

Max, with his ears fine-tuned for adventure, nodded, and even Whiskers, with a disdain for dog-made hullabaloo, twitched her tail in accord. Together, we decided to embark on a quest to chase down the one dog who seemed more nebula than friend, leaving chaos where stars should have shone.

As we chased comet trails and raced past planets, we discovered breadcrumbs of chaos—a torn banner here, an eviscerated float there. Even Retriever’s Restaurant, that venerable institution of canine cuisine, looked as if a black hole had passed through, whisking all the Thanksgiving fare into the abyss.

“Jealousy,” I pondered aloud, my voice as dry as kibble left out overnight, “is a green little monster. Perhaps bluer on this part of the cosmic quilt?”

“Or just plain hungry,” Max suggested, sniffing an obliterated pie with the sagacity of Sherlock’s hound.

Our odyssey took us through the splendor of Amber Akita Alley, now less amber and more akin to the dark side of the moon, and on to Onyx Otterhound Oasis, where water danced like stardust—sadly devoid of its usual decorations.

“Coco,” whispered Lola, her golden eyes reflecting the infinite, “do you ever wonder if in trying to prevent chaos, we become agents of it ourselves?”

“Ah,” I said, my soulful gaze skyward, “the existential quandary as boundless as space itself, but my dear, the show must go on. Destiny awaits at the final frontier!”

Indeed it did, for we found our villain, an alien-eyed, scruffy terrier mix skulking in the shadow of The Tail Wagger’s Tailor—a dog exiled by his own doing, shrouded in bitterness like a festive turkey left uncarved.

“My friends,” I professed with a sincerity that could melt comets, “sabotage snatched our splendid spectacles, and this dog, this Sirius of the streets, is the artisan of our woes.”

Our collective gasp must have caused a meteor shower somewhere in the void.

Yet rather than a showdown, it became a show of tails and heart. For what is Thanksgiving in Pawsburg—or any ‘burgh drifting in the infinite—if not the very embodiment of inclusion?

“Egad, you look like you could use a friend. Say, how are you with confetti and cosmic glue?” I extended a paw, my generosity as big as Jamie’s heart when doling out peanut butter treats.

Thus, transformed was the outcast, from nebula of sorrow to supernova of joy, helping to reinvent the parade into an even grander jubilee, a celebration of not only thanksgiving but of camaraderie.

We partied amidst a newfound constellation, a heavenly splotch called Gratitude, with feasting and tales that grew more elaborate with each telling—stories of a brave French bulldog, his band of motley mutts, and even a cat, uniting Pawsburg under the turkey-laden table of friendship.

And me, Coco, a dog whose adventures spanned the galaxies and whose heart found its match in the boundless expanse of space, marvelled at the journey and the tender revelations found within the warm embrace of Pawsburg’s universal hug.

The End.