Hey there! Junior here, the blue fawn hero of the Pawsburg Parade Fiasco. Turns out, our very own Barktholomew went rogue over some unpopular olives. But with a bit of dogged detective work and a heart bigger than a Great Dane, we turned his pie-tastrophe into the biggest, olive-less shindig this side of the Shiba Inlet. Parade saved, tails wagging, all in a day’s work for yours truly. Paws and reflect on that! 🐾 – J-Man

Listen to the story here

You know how every dog has its day? Well, in Pawsburg, every day’s a dog day, but this story begins when our days almost turned into doggone disasters.

I’m Junior, the blue fawn Pitbull with the white snout – handsome, if I do say so myself. I was lounging outside my humble abode, a stone’s throw from both the enchanting Shiba Inlet and the illustrious Bloodhound Bluffs, soaking in the warm golden hour. It’s a time so peaceful, one might just forgive their aversion to olives—but let’s not get hasty.

As Pawsburg prepared for the annual Thanksgiving Day parade, something smelled off, and it wasn’t the overcooked turkey at Doggie Diner. You see, our quaint little town was in disarray; decorations lay in tatters, floats had punctures like they’d faced a cactus army, and the food, oh the glorious food, had gone missing. It was a scene straight from a badly directed play where the actors forget their lines – only, this was no act.

Immediately I called upon Spot and Whiskers, my trusty sidekicks. “Spot, Whiskers, we’ve got more drama than a soap opera series finale!”

“Oh really? Last I checked, we were trying to save a parade, not stop a wedding,” quipped Whiskers with her usual dry wit.

We sniffed out clues, our paws padding along Papillon Promenade, past the lights of Retriever’s Restaurant reflecting off tableware like a Morse code of glare. The trail led us past my favorite Fetch! Toys and Treats, disdainfully bypassing The Dapper Dog Salon – glamour was least of our worries when adventure called.

Our parade saboteur had left a scatter of feathers, a smudge of what turned out to be roasted chicken, and an unmistakable trail of decidedly different pawprints. “Seems we’re dealing with a party pooper with a grudge,” I stated, adjusting my collar that wasn’t there.

The signs were as clear as my reflection in a freshly slobbered bowl of water. We traced the mess to none other than Barktholomew, the beagle from the bakery. He sat within, surrounded by half-eaten pies and an air of defeat.

“Why, Barktholomew?” I inquired, tilting my head in gentle interrogation.

“Because,” he whimpered, “every year I watch, and no one ever wants the olives from my pies. I just wanted to matter, Junior, to be part of something.”

His words hit like a frisbee caught in a strong gust – misaimed but feeling the effort.

“Look, no one’s a fan of olives here, but sabotaging the whole show? That’s lower than a belly crawlin’ for treats.” The words were tough but fair – like a no-nonsense coach with a heart.

The answer lay in unity, much like Pawsburg itself. Why, if we can accept cats attending dog parades, surely we can make room for olive pies – and beagle frustrations.

So we did what any velvet-hearted, tail-wagging community would do. We put his pie-making prowess to good use and had Barktholomew bake the largest, most magnificent olive-free pie for the parade. And as compassion and pies mingled in the air, the parade was back on track.

As the floats drifted like proper parade clouds, Pawfect Pastries served up treats, every whisker and tail in Pawsburg wagged in harmony. Even the vacuum cleaners ceased their menacing roar for a day to join in the festivities. I — who would rather face a tornado of tennis balls than a vacuum — shared a truce with the contraption from Hades itself.

In the end, Pawsburg’s pageant was more than a celebration of the season; it was a testament to our spirit – as forgiving as Spot’s eyes when someone mentions “bath” and as warm as my snug spot by the old ba

The End.