Hey family,

Just wanted to give you the latest scoop from Pawsburgh! Turns out, I’ve been sniffing out a Thanksgiving thief – and solving the mystery paw-by-paw with the local tail-wagging gang. We unmasked the culprit, one Dennis the Dachshund, turned a foe into a friend, and saved the parade! All in a dog’s day’s work for your very own Ozzy aka “Bubba”. Now, let’s just hope the humans save me some of that delicious turkey!

Licks and wags,
Ozzy 🐾🦃✨

Listen to the story here

It was a crisp November morning in Pawsburgh, and I, Ozzy, was perched on the windowsill of my human’s home, my perked ears twitching with excitement. The Thanksgiving Day Parade was upon us, an event spoken of in hushed, reverent barks in every nook of town. But this year, something was amiss. A scoundrel had taken it upon themselves to tarnish the festive spirit, leaving only chaos in their wake.

I would often lounge here, draped in sunlight and dreaming of Gouda, but today, my thoughts were consumed by the misdeeds unraveling the tapestry of our tranquil town. Garnet Greyhound Grove was stripped of its glittering garlands, Schnauzer Street’s proud parade floats laid in peril, and, heavens forbid, someone had even swiped the massive turkey breast from Rottweiler’s Ribs!

My fellow canines needed a hero, and who better than a dashing Yorkshire Terrier with a nose for gourmet cheese and mystery? I leapt from my perch, my coat shimmering like a cascade of liquid silver, and scuttled towards the heart of the pandemonium.

Arriving at Spaniel Springs, I rallied my comrades. “Listen up, you mangy mutts!” I announced to an eager audience of diverse breeds. “We’ve got a caper on our paws, and it’s up to us to unsnarl this matted mystery.”

My ever-faithful friend, a corpulent beagle with a penchant for snooty cheeses as strong as mine, waddled to my side. “What’s the plan, Oz?” he asked.

I tilted my head, pondering. “We sniff out the clues and corner this cur,” I declared with the authority of a dog who had faced down many a menacing vacuum cleaner.

So, we went to work, all Oxford-like deduction and paws-on-the-ground investigation. My first clue came from The Canine Café, where a peculiar scent wafted through the air. Not cheddar, not brie, but the unmistakable tang of pickles – a scent I found utterly repellent.

“Follow yon stench!” I barked, leading the pack with my tail fashionably held high.

Our journey unwound through cobblestone streets and bustling courtyards, pausing only to quell our apprehension with a stack of Woof Waffles here, a dalliance at The Barking Boutique there. And as the sun sank low, casting a warm glow over Pawsburgh’s rooftops, we uncovered the truth. The saboteur was none other than a disgruntled Dachshund named Dennis, bitter and lonesome, feeling cast aside by the jubilant festivities.

We found him moping under the tender shelter of The Doggie Daycare’s droopy eaves, his spirit as wilted as a three-day-old turkey leg.

“Dennis,” I addressed him with the poise of the finest terrier diplomat, “Why hast thou besmirched our parade with such pickly pique?”

Between sobs, Dennis confessed. He yearned to be part of the parade, not its pariah. His actions were a desperate bark for attention.

I wagged my tail, contemplating his plights. “Then join us,” I said. “Let’s mend what’s been torn asunder.” My friends woofed in agreement, joy springing anew in their eyes.

And so, we set forth together, repairing decorations and reimagining floats. Dennis, with his newly discovered flair for design, led the charge, his tail a blithe metronome of creativity.

The day of the parade arrived, and Pawsburgh had never shone brighter. As the floats meandered through the streets—Garland Greyhound Grove restored to its former splendor, Schnauzer Street a marvel of mirth—I understood, perhaps for the first time, the true essence of Thanksgiving.

As the town reveled in the triumph of companionship over conflict, their amalgamated barks and howls sang a song of gratitude. And there I was, little Ozzy the Terrible, snuggling under the forgiving arm of Thanksgiving, my furry heart as full as my owners’ dinner plates.

The End.