Hey hooman,

Just took the lead in the tail-waggin’ mystery of the Thanksgiving Sabotage in Pawsburg! Outsmarted a misguided Dalmatian, saved the parade, and even made pie my archenemy (note: still allergic to citrus). Town unity? Check. Another adventure for the books? Double-check. Call me Tahnyr, the nose that knows—and sniffs out happy endings.

Over & out,
Tahnyr, the Dachshund Detective

Listen to the story here

I always held that Pawsburg was the kind of town where surprises lurked around every neatly trimmed hedge and quaint lamppost, but this Thanksgiving was shaping up to trump them all. Me? I’m Tahnyr, your Tri Dachshund narrator with a flair for the dramatic, and let me lead you by the leash through this hodgepodge of holiday hullabaloo.

Imagine my derision upon discovering our cherished Thanksgiving Day preparations defiled. “Sabotage!” cried the Beagles of the Pawsburg Patrol. But who would mar such a magnificent melee of merriment? The town’s dogs, always quick to chorus their agreement on where to find the best sniff, now banded behind me in sleuthing solidarity. Unity was, after all, the theme of all themes.

There was Maximus, his mighty size inversely proportional to his wit, and Gigi, whose thoughts were as fluffy as her tail. Off we scampered through Pomeranian Park, its lawns usually a tessellation of playful paws, but now silent as a graveyard at noontime. No clues there.

We chatted up the chap who ran Labrador Lunch. “Seen anything amiss, old pal?” I inquired with the casual nonchalance I’m known for.

“Only an odd sort lurkin’,” he said, “actin’ shadier than an Elm in June.”

Eskimo Estuary told a similar tale as we found Blue Basenji Bay positively ransacked. Our hearts not so much sank as plunged.

At The Doggy Depot, demolished decorations dismayed us; at the Furry Friends Art Gallery, graffiti grieved the onlookers. But Canine Couture Clothing had suffered the vilest villainy—a shredded silk sash lay like a wounded serpent. A clue this was. One with a story to spill if suitably interrogated.

Gigi’s nose twitched. “A scent most foul,” she said, not without drama. “Citrus.”

Citrus! That whiff I’d forever forsaken! My tail quivered with revelation.

“Speak up, Tahnyr, I’m not getting any younger here,” prodded Maximus, doubtless feeling the chill without the fur-fluff I usually warmed his shadow with.

Our villain held a grudge as bitter as a lemon peel. I imagined his woe at seeing others rejoice, himself an outcast. But rather than nibble on sour grapes—or lemons, as the case may be—he’d chosen to squeeze them into the town’s collective eye.

Through back alleys and parkways we sleuthed, gleaning knowledge like squirrels preparing for winter. And then, by the cut of his jib and a citrus cologne that assaulted the snout, we found him.

I addressed our culprit with a forced geniality that would’ve made even Dorothy Parker choke on her cocktail. “Wouldn’t you rather toast with us than our parade roast us?”

Turns out, our wrongdoer, a dapperish Dalmatian named Deeds, had not the invitation received—a mishap most regrettable.

So that day, in the spirit of Thanksgiving, our hearts expanded a size or two. Pawsburg embraced Deeds, an inclusionary move.

The parade! Oh, the parade marched with gusto renewed, a woofing, wagging wonder of a spectacle. Deeds used his citrus talent to revamp the pawfect punch at Pawfect Pastries, earning encores aplenty, while I relished repentantly down-the-nose glances at the pie I avoided, as pies whiffed of orange were, and shall remain, my nemesis.

As evening fell softly over Pawsburg, the villain, now vanquisher of vices, sat amongst us. We shared stories under the stars, learning anew of the essence of gratitude. For at the end of the day—or the parade—it wasn’t just the fanfare that fed the soul, but the company one falls into a trot beside.

And every wag of my tail did compose a silent sonnet to that Thanksgiving Day in Pawsburg—the day we uncovered more than a villain, but the virtue buried beneath.

The End.