Hey, just to loop you in: I’ve been playing detective with Jasper and Bella, sniffing out the turkey-day saboteur. Turned out to be Gravy, the Dachshund, feeling a bit left out. No worries, though – we patched things up and the parade’s back on tail-wagging track! So, this Thanksgiving, it’s all paws on deck for tales n’ tails and a side of unity. 🦴🐾 – Tiki

Listen to the story here

Thanksgiving was fast approaching and Pawsburg was abuzz with excitement and the smell of autumn crispness. But this was no ordinary Thanksgiving, because in Pawsburg, every curled tail and wagging snout anticipated the annual parade – the highlight of our dog-year. It was almost a sacred tradition, like burying the perfect bone only to forget where you buried it.

Now, let me tell you, Jasper and Bella were in a tizzy about the parade – and Mr. Whiskerson? Well, he was as calm as a cat at a dog show, which is to say, not very. But I, Tiki, that zigzag-backed Jackapoo with the tail that never knew from rest, was puzzled by the mysterious goings-on disrupting our festive spirit.

“I tell ya, Tiki, every banner I put up, gone! Like a treat on my nose during ‘stay’,” Jasper barked, his tail semaphore signaling distress.

“You think that’s bad?” Bella, who usually spent her time swatting at our tails, added, “Someone’s been stealing the Bark-n-Bite Bistro’s best roast chicken!” Now, that was personal. Those scrumptious pieces were a Sunday tradition for me, and sabotage on this leve would not stand on my watch. On or off-leash.

Mr. Whiskerson whispered wisely, “The one who disrupts the feast, surely feels like the least.”

So the stage was set, our adventure laid out like an open bag of kibble, and oh, did we feast on the mission. We scoured Amber Akita Alley, searched high and low in Pinscher Plaza, and sniffed around every hydrant in Terrier Town. Our noses were our guides, our tails our moral compass, spinning us toward the saboteur like a compass on Thanksgiving.

“You know, Tiki,” Jasper said as we approached The Wagging Tail Bookstore where the chaos had left its litter, “sometimes I think you just enjoy the chase more than the catch.”

“It’s not about the catch, Jasper,” I replied, looking for clues among the scattered pages of dog-eared novels, “It’s about the story we find ourselves in.”

It was there in the wreckage of prose and chewed-up cookbooks that we found our biggest clue – a torn piece of fabric, the kind only used in one place in all of Pawsburg.

Chowhound’s Chophouse.

The plot thickened like the gravy on Thanksgiving’s roast; only this time it carried a bittersweet taste. We found our saboteur – an old Dachshund named Gravy (ironic, I know), who felt left out of the celebrations because of his short legs and slower gait.

“You know, Gravy,” I said as we confronted our culinary criminal, “the spirit of this holiday isn’t about the speed with which you join the parade, but the joy we share when you’re in it.”

It took some tail wags, a few licks of apology, and a sincere invitation, but Gravy’s grudges melted away like ice cream on a summer sidewalk. And so, we all – Gravy included – worked paw-in-paw, tail-in-tail to set Pawsburg’s stage for the grandest parade this side of the fire hydrant.

The Thanksgiving parade was more than a parade; it was a lesson in love and unity. Jasper found a new ‘leash’ on life beside Bella, who learned to enjoy his flurry of fur. And I? I realized that while the chase thrilled me, the connections I made were the choicest cuts of all.

Pawsburg danced and dined, and I spun my impromptu pirouettes among friends, new and old, all under the watchful eye of the wise old Mr. Whiskerson. The town pulsed with laughter, tales, and a certain Jackapoo’s metronome tail – proof that the power of a simple invite could carve more good into the world than the sharpest of claws or teeth.

The End.

Share This Story: