Hey Dad,

Embraced my inner hound-detective in Pawsburgh’s messy Thanksgiving caper! A parade, a pink-dye crisis, and one misunderstood colorblind pup brought our pack together. Patched it up and led a revamped parade that’s got tails wagging about more than just turkey. Turns out, unity and chew sticks outweigh solo snoozes any day. Who knew?!

Cheers,
Albert aka Growlbert

Listen to the story here

I’ll never forget the crisp, autumn morn in Pawsburgh when the tail of thievery wagged its odious yarn. The Thanksgiving Day parade was the talk of the town—or would have been, if anyone could stop yapping about the mysterious miscreant snatching joy (and sausages) right from under our noses.

My name is Albert, and I’m something of a local sleuth, though mostly by accident rather than any natural proclivity towards heroics. My companions, Baker, Lilly, and Lil Rosie, lie dozing at this ungodly hour, but for yours truly, sleep eluded like a cat with a disdain for company.

Dragging my noble, tuckered self out into the pre-dawn haze, the scent of villainy prickled my snout. Pawsburgh was in disorder; Pomeranian Park’s banners were torn, Dachshund Dale’s bunting lay in shreds, and the Kelpie Keys float bobbed pathetically sans its once magnificent berry garland. Who would do such a thing? And more importantly, what sort of dog shuns a parade? It was a mystery wrapped in an enigma, sprinkled with a smattering of dog biscuits for good measure.

A clue presented itself, rather impolitely, when I tripped over a strut from the Barking Brunch float, twisting my paw most unpleasantly. “Blast and botheration!” I proclaimed. I glanced at the strut—it was gnawed through. This was no human saboteur; this was the work of canine incisors.

I hobbled, much aggrieved, to gather my slumbering cohorts. The game was afoot, and even though I face adversity like a Bulldog—namely, with considerable confusion and drooling—I knew the importance of solidarity.

“So, there’s an ol’ bad dog messin’ around, ya say?” drawled Baker as we convened at Poodle’s Pasta for a strategy brunch.

“The audacity,” uttered Lilly, her eyes sharper than the cutlery.

“If it weren’t for bad luck,” I began in a tone I fancied quite Adamsesque, “Pawsburgh would have no luck at all.” Pup’s Paella was our fuel, and camaraderie, our condiment.

Off we set, noses to the ground, searching for the saboteur. The trail led us, circuitously (much like my thoughts), to Canine Couture Clothing, where the finest raiments had been inexplicably dyed a shocking pink.

“Hattie!” came a wail from inside The Pooch Playhouse—a mauve mutt among the plush toys. The underdog of our tale, no less.

Hattie quivered, surrounded by stolen goods and tail wagging not at all.

“You’re to blame for this… anti-festivity?” I barked, more in sorrow than in anger.

She hung her head. “Festivities are for the favored. No one invites the colorblind dog to the parade.”

Her voice cracked, painting a picture more despairing than a lone bone on a vast plain.

We four, Lily, Baker, Lil Rosie, and I, exchanged a look as if reading a book of compassion.

“Jolly rot,” I declared, “We won’t stand for it.”

Embracing Hattie into our fold, we worked tirelessly, patching up floats, rehanging streamers, and turning stained couture into an avant-garde statement.

Pawsburgh’s parade was to be a display of unity; a testament to the indefatigable spirit of dogs who understand that Thanksgiving isn’t just about food and fanfare—it’s about giving others a reason to wag.

The Howling Husky Hardware Store contributed screws and nails, and Barking Brunch donated treats, as everyone pitched in. As the parade commenced, the floats were the very picture of dogged determination, and not a single spectator suspected the tail behind the scenes.

There we marched, a reformed Hattie proudly leading the way. And at that moment, as human perceptions of our mischief faded, I realized the journey had rewarded us with a lesson on the essence of our canine nature: to forgive, to embrace, and to chew sticks by each other’s side.

And so, dear reader, remember this: where there’s a wag, there’s a way—especially in Pawsburgh, on Thanksgiving Day.

The End.