Hey there, it’s Scarlett (the one and only). Just saved Thanksgiving in Pawsburg! Turns out mystery and mayhem were afoot—discovered a sabotaging mongrel ousted from the parade. Did what any eminently sensible poodle would: befriended him over bagels and we turned the event upside-down in a good way. Parade’s been a hit, town’s smiles are even wider, and we’ve shown that with a dash of kindness and a sprinkle of unity, every dog has its day. 🐾🥐✨ #PawsburgPeaceKeeper

Listen to the story here

The first hint of trouble tickled my nostrils on a brisk morning at Basenji Bay, the scent of mischief mingling with the salty sea air. The townsfolk of Pawsburg were abuzz with the preparations for the annual Thanksgiving Day parade, a whirlwind of banners, bunting, and exuberance where even Mr. Whiskerson sported a miniature pilgrim hat.

As I trotted down the streets lined with enchanting displays of Setter Shore, I sauntered past the shuttered Chihuahua’s Chimichangas; it was rather early, even for the most voracious of burrito enthusiasts. The normally jubilant Doggone Deli sign hung askew, looking decidedly un-jubilant, and there, amidst the chew toys of Pet Partners Pet Supplies, I noticed paw prints smudged in spilled kibble.

“Morning, Miss Scarlett,” barked Jolene and Jasper as they bounded up, almost tripping over their ears. “Someone’s turned the town topsy-turvy!”

Fluttering through the daybreak, Marjorie’s bubbles would have to wait, for Pawsburg needed her spirited poodle.

“You two, nose to the ground; I’ll sniff around The Barking Boutique,” I said, my velvet coat shimmering with resolve.

The wind carried whimpers and the tiniest echo of a harmonica—the very instrument that made my blood run cold. Peering from a selection of boater hats and faux diamond collars, I spied the saboteur: a scruffy mongrel, tail low, his temerity tangling the tinsel and tarnishing our Thanksgiving.

“Why?” I asked. The mongrel started, nearly dropping his instrument of mayhem.

“They forced me out of the parade once. No mongrels on floats, they said. I’m the outcast, the pariah!” he snarled, paws flexing.

The stories Marjorie whispered over her bread dough swirled within me. Compassion, unity—Pawsburg embodied these, even if we sometimes forget. Mr. Whiskerson once confided that I am an “eminently sensible animal.” It was time to prove him right.

So, I did the most sensible thing a sophisticate like me could do—I invited him to breakfast at Beagle Bagels, where we could concoct a plan that would make my favorite sunrise pale in comparison.

There, amongst the savory scents and the clink of dog bowls, we conspired. The mongrel’s talent for creating crepe paper streamers was nothing shy of astonishing, and his sharp eyes could spot a loose bulb in the festive lights from three streets away.

By the time Jolene and Jasper serenaded the sun’s ascension, Pawsburg was ready for the grandest parade yet. Without a harmonica in sight, I led the procession, the mongrel at my side with his streamers fluttering against our newly-decorated float, a bastion of inclusivity and triumph.

The day unfolded in laughter and barks, bonds formed between bread slices and believing in second chances. Marjorie would’ve clapped with delight, her baker’s hands dusted in flour.

As the parade carried on, I mused softly, “Not so much about the floats and fanfare, is it?”

“It’s about being seen, about having a place,” admitted the mongrel, a glean of gratitude in his now twinkling eyes.

That evening, as Jolene and Jasper’s howls serenaded a turkey-stuffed town, Pawsburg was aglow with more than just fairy lights. It was the sheen of companionship; it was the essence of Thanksgiving. As I laid beneath the stars, memories of today’s adventure wove into my dreams, each a vibrant thread in the tapestry of Pawsburg’s harmony—a reminder that even in the fanciful weave of our town, unity and kindness were the most magical patterns of all.

The End.

Share This Story: