Hey Sarah, it’s ya boy, Bishop. Just saved Thanksgiving and turned a villain into a buddy. Brought the town together with charm, wit, and a nose for justice. Now THAT’s a parade! Catch you at the feast? 🐾🦃 – The Woofing Watchman

Listen to the story here

The early light of Pawsburg crept through the curtains of my sunlit sanctuary high above Main Street. The buzz of the Thanksgiving Day parade preparations rumbled below. I, Bishop the Boston Terrier, watched with a cocksured tilt of the head. Sarah had left before dawn, trusting that my plate of apple slices and carrots would sustain me until her return. I nosed the white blaze between my eyes with a paw – ’twas the day for a parade, after all, and an adventure of sorts.

I trotted down to Pinscher Plaza where the chaos unfolded – banners wavering like the setting sun on a desert horizon. Pooches trotted around like cowboys in their own doggone rodeo. But lo and behold – calamity! The decorations appeared torn asunder, the floats had been chewed on mightily, and food… Missin’!

“My friends,” I announced, musterin’ every ounce of my noble goofball charm, “we have a parade to salvage, a varmint to catch!”

I roused my posse – Daisy, quick on her paws as any outlaw, and Rufus, steady as a preacher on Sunday. We set out down Akita Alley, tracking the scent as keenly as any tail we’d ever chased. Clues were as scarce as fleas in winter chill, but we corralled a few scattered pickle slices, a signature clue as obvious as vultures circling overhead.

At the edge of Opal Pomeranian Park, beneath the mighty elm whose leaves had played accompaniment to many a lazy afternoon, we spied the miscreant. A lone mutt, shrouded in the early-morning mist, hunched over Setter’s Steakhouse’s once-proud rib roast.

“Whoa there,” I barked, my vocal jest as ragged as the terrain we’d navigated to get here, “That’s not the spirit of Thanksgiving!”

The mutt snarled, a growl low as a canyon rumble, but we stood steadfast. Daisy flanked left, Rufus brought up the rear, and I stood – the gatekeeper to all we held dear in this dog-eat-dog frontier. But as the growl subsided, I saw it… the look of a pooch gone lonesome on the trail.

Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle; it turned out, every doggone year, this cur was never invited to partake in the parade revelry. Bitterness had festered like an unsheathed thorn until boundin’ into the villainy seemed the only way to holler out for attention.

Banding together, we explained as best as any creature gifted with speech, or bark, that this day was one to honor what we had, who we were, and whom we had beside us. Forgiveness, like a well-worn cowboy boot, fits just right when given the chance.

We led our newfound friend back through the streets, our tails a’waggin’ in harmony. Poodle’s Pasta, Best in Show Photography, The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium – all offered a paw in aid. The parade spruced up mightier than the plumage of a Rio Grande turkey, and our once-villain was cheerfully wrangled into fixing his own wrongs.

As the evening star rose above Pawsburg, the town yipped and yapped with a joy so pure it could’ve filled the Grand Canyon itself. We, the noble dogs of this quaint town, had not only saved the day but restored the howlin’ soul of our community to its rightful place.

We dined with merriment at Pooch’s Pub; steaks and pasta were the entrées of choice. And as I savored my squeaky-clean carrots, I knew – this Thanksgiving wasn’t about the feast nor the parade. It was about us, the hounds of all breeds and sizes, coming together, a testimony to the endless skies of gratitude above.

As night closed in around us, a reminder that even in the wildest of Wests, the true essence of Thanksgiving was never about the fanfare but the paw prints we leave upon each other’s hearts. And I – Bishop – was thankful for the journey, the friends, and the tales left to tell.

The End.

Share This Story: