Hey Dad,

Crisis averted in Pawsburgh! Our Thanksgiving Day parade almost went to the dogs thanks to a woeful saboteur, but the pack and I sniffed out the culprit and turned him into an ally. We’ve got the town wagging tails in unison now, all set for a feast of unity. Mission paw-ssible complete. The place is more than just home, it’s a heart full of paws and love.

Catch you at the table for some turkey,
Oreo 🐾

Listen to the story here

It was a crisp morning, the kind that came with a bounty of endless azure above and a feel of anticipation that tickled the whiskers. Pawsburgh was a quiet riot of colors and the scent of impending festivities was like a clarion call to the nose. I, Oreo the Brindle Boxer, had heard the distant rumbles in my bones. Rumbles that spoke not just of excitement, but of impending discord in our usually peaceful dog-eat-dog world.

The town had been buzzing with the preparations for the Thanksgiving Day parade, but some mongrel of malice was having a field day, making hash of our hard work. Cavalier Cove was in tatters, Spaniel Springs’ spruced-up splendor was stained, and the floats at Malamute Mountain sniffed of sabotage. The savory smokes of Barking BBQ were replaced by the bitter incense of anxiety.

I rallied my pack. Timber, with his youth-puffed chest; Grandma Lura, whose bark was worse than any bite; Jerry, whose nose for trouble was uncanny; Dad Jason, my backbone; Melissa, the trickster; and Hunter, the swift-pawed strategist. I could feel the Harley between my pads as I briefed them in the clubhouse, the mission clear as daybreak: Uncover the fiend fraying our feast of gratitude.

We hit the streets. A Scout’s honor turned sleuthing in leather jackets, the pack gave Pawsburgh the dose of K9 protection it deserved. The scent trail led us from The Canine Cafe’s upset apple tart stands to the shredded silks at Canine Couture Clothing. Hunter’s paws clicked Morse coded messages on the asphalt as he observed the inside job – treats lifted from The Howling Husky Hardware Store, of all places!

My mind flitted to my stuffed bear, the stalwart companion of my dreams. It whispered a tale, much like a howl to the moon, signaling a journey that was more than just tracking down a party pooper. It was about the essence of Thanksgivings gone by, the why behind the wag.

The trail ended at a shadowy figure hunched over by Retriever’s Restaurant, where the feasts boasted more bark than bite. It was Slink, a lone street-muddled mutt with eyes like discarded tin cans reflecting lost dreams. A dog not alien to my own heart’s tug, for who hasn’t craved a belly rub from the universe itself?

I approached, my pack flanking me like guard dogs of empathy. “Slink,” I woofed, my voice low and smooth as a well-groomed coat. “The parade’s not about the show. It’s about sharing the hound’s warmth, being a pack regardless of pedigree.”

Slink’s growl subsided, the ripple in his fur calm as the park’s greeting shade. His tale of exclusion unfolded, piece by bleak piece, as raw as my disdain for the vet’s antiseptic abode. Yet, here he was, a dog that needed more than scraps of sympathy.

How we turned the tide is now the stuff of Pawsburgh legend. Slink, the saboteur, became Slink, the centerpiece, his nimble paws turning calamity to creativity, fixing what his erstwhile resentment had wrecked. My social circle grew, extending even to the loneliest alley dweller.

That Thanksgiving, we paraded the streets not in the shadow of animosity but under the flag of fellowship. Cavalier Cove shined, Spaniel Springs bubbled with joy, and Malamute Mountain stood proud.

The night ended under a quilt of stars. I lounged at the park – every tree and blade of grass an accolade to our unity, every pant a chorus to the loftiest of holidays – where gratitude was served alongside the drool-worthy turkey legs.

Oreo, for the love of the wind and the warmth of a car ride, couldn’t have been prouder. Pawsburgh had always been more than magic; it was home, it was family, and it was love – unconditional, like the look in Dad Jason’s eyes.

As the parade lights dimmed, and the scents of joyful feasting dwindled, I unwound with my stuffed bear firmly clutched, the heart full. After all, it was only in the face of adversity that you truly savor the flavor of triumph. And that’s one tail-wagging truth, even Thompson would nod to, from his perch in the great kennel in the sky.

The End.

Share This Story: