Hey Mom and Dad, just a quick tail-wag from Spencerville. Played the unlikely hero today; sniffed out the troublemaker behind the parade chaos. Turned out to be Rascal Rex needing some pals, so we gave him a spot in our pack and, together, spruced up the parade floats. Spencerville’s now as warm and fuzzy as the undersides of your slippers. Love and doggy kisses to you both – J-Dawg 🐾🦴🎨

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Down in Spencerville the air’s alive, I sniff it. You’d think it’d be all about scents of majestic turkey roasts wafting through the town and pies cooling on window sills—a proper dog’s dream, right? But no, I’ve caught a whiff of trouble, something fouler than a three-day-old fish treat left in the sun.

It’s the Thanksgiving Day Parade today, and there’s a vandal on the loose—a rascal ripping through decorations like they’re a fresh pile of leaves. Now, a dog’s got responsibilities beyond begging for turkey scraps, so I gather the gang: Fat Russell leads the charge with his hefty gait, and the rest of us fall in line. I keep the image of Mom’s smiling face at the forefront of my mind—how she always said that a Bulldog’s spirit is as unyielding as the rest of him.

We roam to East Pug Palace, the air chilling as our paws patter on the cobblestone streets, crinkled leaves whispering the echo of our silent pact. The evidence is glaring; torn banners and a trail of cranberry sauce someone clearly mistook for a game trail. We push on through Lower Golden Gate Gardens, our noses tuned to the scent of the scoundrel. And you know, as we trot, I think of that Jolly ball of mine, how it’s not so different from the chase—both are about keeping your eye on the move, anticipating the bounce.

A signboard outside The Cat’s Meow Sushi is clawed to shreds; seems our foe has taste—or had until they lost their manners. But we dogs? We understand manners. We sit for treats, we wait our turn at the water bowl at Ruff-n-Ready Pizzeria, and we certainly don’t go nibbling the bunting meant for the parade before the main event, like some kind of uncivilized squirrel.

We reach Dalmatian Desert just as twinkling lights flicker on, dotting the dusk with soft glows. It’s silent, too silent for eve of festivities. Tables for feasts are a jumbled mess, as if the winds of mutiny blew across the spread.

Then, in the dim light of a half-gnawed pumpkin lantern, I spot something, or, rather, someone—a figure with a paint brush and a glum droop to their tail. It’s Rascal Rex, the loner, the dog who never got the invite to the game of fetch or a place at the bonfire storytelling. I caught the faint twitch of his whiskers, a whisper of longing. And it dawns on us, he’s not spoiling the fun; he’s painting his own invite.

“Rex,” I say, for my bark’s more heart than howl, “Spencerville’s doors are as open as the field I roam. Ain’t a place for bitter solitude.”

He pauses, brush mid-air and eyes wide, like someone just tossed him the last bite of steak from the table.

The confounded mutterings stir among my friends, like a wave of unsettled water in Bow Wow Bistro troughs. But the thing about Thanksgiving is, it’s meant to broaden your pack, pull in another snout to warm by the fire.

So that’s what we do. We bring Rex in, ask about his skills, turns out he’s handy with color and design. And before you know it, Fat Russell’s got a pie-eating contest float that’s the envy of Main Street. And Rascal Rex? He’s there, front and center, grinning like a hound that’s found the biggest bone.

The parade is a hit, and Spencerville shines bright under the November stars. And as for us dogs, we’re munching on leftovers, and I’m wrapped up in a cuddle session by Mom’s feet, all warm and fuzzy like the notions we sometimes forget—but not today. Because today’s about all sorts of giving and forgiving, remembering those in the nooks of solitude, and painting them a corner in your heart.

And so, as the town feasts, clinks glasses, and shares tales of the day, I jot this down in the diary of my mind—a story of mischief turned to good, of a parade about more than just show, but heart. And maybe that’s as good as the cheese I relish, or the field I command—belonging, it seems, is a treat that’s best when shared.

The End.

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