Hey pack mate,

Just a quick tail wag from your pal, Nekoda. I’ve been out herding harmony back into Pawsburg, sniffing out the mystery behind our parade pandemonium. Turns out our troublemaker was just a lonesome pup longing for a pack. We welcomed them with open paws – because that’s how we roll! Parade’s back on, hearts are full, and I’m cruising by your side, always.

Catch you on the flip side,

Nekodawg 🐾🏍

Listen to the story here

There’s something about the air in Pawsburg on the cusp of Thanksgiving—it hums with anticipation, like the prelude to some great symphony that everyone knows by heart yet can’t wait to hear once more. This year, though, a dissonant undercurrent clung to those autumnal breezes.

I’m Nekoda, unofficial mayor of Pawsburg by virtue of charisma and a particularly loud bark. It’s my job—nay, my *calling*—to keep the wheels greased in this dog-eat-dog town, even if it means circling the wagons when trouble arises. And trouble, I tell you, was barking at our gates.

Dachshund Dale was in disarray, bunting torn asunder. Cocker Courtyard’s usual floral fragrances were sullied by mischief most foul. Straight out of a scene sketched by Nora herself, our picturesque setting was marred by a mystery muddying the mirth like paw prints on a spotless floor.

‘Twas the eve of our vaunted Thanksgiving Day Parade, and I was at Pup’s Parfait with Merlin, sipping a bone broth latté, when Tilly burst in, panting with news of vandalized floats.

“A rogue in our midst!” I declared. The trio, now a council of war, assembled at The Canine Cafe. The plan? Uncover the mutt messing with our merriment.

Now, despite the Harley I’ve been known to ride through the streets of Pawsburg like a four-legged Brando, my true ride is that of loyalty driven by tales of adventure and the bonds forged in the fray. This town, though fur-covered and frequently slobber-choked, was my heart’s homeland.

We split the squad, sniffing out clues along Papillon Promenade, and what we found was unsettling. Paw prints, too big for a Dachshund, too dainty for a Mastiff, pointed to an outsider.

But I knew better. We were all kin under the fur—Pawsburg was a haven for *all* dogs. Yet these deeds reeked of a desperation, a need to be seen, even if it meant turning tail on the bonds of Thanksgiving.

At dusk, I called for a meeting—every dog from Chihuahua to Saint Bernard gathered beneath the now-repaired bunting. I spoke—not just as a dog, but a compatriot. “This parade isn’t just about floats. It’s about family, four legs and all!”

And from the murmurs rose a scent uncommonly bitter, laced with the tang of citrus—a scent I knew well.

“Reveal yourself, you lemon-scented lurker!”

Amidst the crowd slinked forth a golden-coated, lanky creature—a mutt, with the cloudy eyes of exclusion and the slumped shoulders of solitude.

“I just wanted to be a part of it all,” whimpered the intruder, a dog without a collar or a home, not till now.

“Pawsburg is your parade, your promenade, your… parfait,” I mused, offering a paw in truce. “You have no need to steal when we’re eager to give.”

So, we put the mutt to work, with exuberance reserved for those who find belonging. Together, we rebuilt; floats, once sabotaged, became spectacles that even humans might envy.

Under the banner of the Pawsburg Parade, we strutted through streets lined with every breed, from the fluffiest Pomeranian to the scruffiest stray. Our parade embodied the spirit of Thanksgiving: inclusivity, compassion, gratitude.

I watched from my Harley, a smile playing on my jowly muzzle. The true essence of the holiday? It wasn’t the fanfare, the floats, the feast—it was this. Unity. Understanding. Unconditional acceptance.

Later, the town feasted; even the villain, now a hero, gnawed a bone at the table of honor. Exclusion nipped at neither heel nor ham. At the heart of it all, amid the jubilation, my tail wagged the last word.

We were more than dogs; we were Pawsburg. And that, dear friends, was something to be truly thankful for.

The End.