Hey Dad,

Just wrangled us a whopper of a Thanksgiving in Spencerville! Led my four-legged squad to sniff out the parade saboteur, showed some big-dog love to grumpy Marmaduke, and we all patched up the floats just in time! Now I’m the town hero, plus I got my ‘blue’ back. Honestly, just another day in the life of Fat Russ. We gotta talk turkey and about the power of giving pups a second chance sometime.

Tail wags,
Russell 🐾

Listen to the story here

I should’ve known it was going to be an unusual day in Spencerville when I awoke to find my beloved ‘blue’ wasn’t nestled in its usual spot beside my comfy bed. Instead, it was perched peculiarly on the windowsill, as if to say, “Look out there, Russell, old chap. Adventure awaits!” And indeed, as I squinted my eyes beyond the glass, I saw the first telltale signs of turmoil.

The Thanksgiving Day parade—a spectacle of joy that brought every dog, cat, and miscellaneous creature in Spencerville together—was in the throes of chaos. Banners had been shredded, the balloons looked deflated in spirit and air, and, most distressingly, the delectable scent of turkey and trimmings was tinged with the foul odor of foul play.

Fenway, my esteemed English Bulldog comrade, shuffled up to me, his football-shaped body heaving with each step. “Russell, someone’s taken a bite out of Thanksgiving and it doesn’t taste good,” he barked, his droopy jowls quivering with concern.

We assembled a ragtag squad of furry detectives: from the spirited Chihuahuas, experts in covert surveillance, to the Collies, whose herding prowess would ensure no clue slipped away. This was a caper, and who better to tackle it than a band of creatures with noses fine-tuned to sniff out trouble?

I suppose I was the brains of the operation. Not to sound boastful, but I’ve outwitted the vacuum cleaner on more than one occasion—a considerable feat if you understand the intricacies of housebound foes.

I led our pack through the ravaged parade grounds, with Fenway by my side, his short legs mirroring my determined strides. Clue by clue, we pieced together the mystery of our Thanksgiving-gone-awry. A nibbled drumstick here, a paw print there, and a suspicious trail of cranberry sauce that looked oddly intentional.

It was young Peaches, a Pomeranian of unusually sharp wit, who first caught wind of our saboteur—quite literally. We followed her lead to North Chihuahua Castle, where our villain lay in hiding. In the spirit of the day, I shall not name names, but imagine my surprise when we found Marmaduke, the town’s notoriously grumpy Great Dane, amidst the remnants of his handiwork.

“Why, Marmaduke?” I asked, with a betrayal of the confusion wrinkling my broad snout. “Why dampen the spirits of our grand feast?”

It turned out that behind his mountainous exterior was a dog nursing an aching feeling of solitude. Marmaduke felt unheard, unseen, excluded—like dry kibble with nary a drop of gravy.

But we, the dogs of Spencerville, are not ones to dwell on wrongs when righting can be had. “You’ve got skills, my massive friend,” I said, “skills we need. You’re part of our pack, always have been. Wouldn’t you rather build than break?”

The generosity wasn’t mine to claim; it was simply in the spirit of the holiday—an infection that even the heartiest of canines couldn’t resist.

After a pause, Marmaduke’s deep-set eyes shimmered not unlike the glint I get when ‘blue’ is afoot for a toss. He agreed to help, and with the strength of a dozen dogs, he set to reviving our parade. Floats were mended, banners were rehung, and the stolen food—well, Marmaduke proved to have some excellent hiding spots.

As the day waned, Spencerville shimmered with the parade beneath the soft glow of twilight. The Great Dane marched at the head, stoically repurposed, wearing a grin as wide as his body, followed by us, his newfound pack, basking in the glow of rekindled unity.

In the end, we not only saved the Thanksgiving Day parade, but we also uncovered the true kernel at the heart of the hullabaloo—community, companionship, and the succulent gravy of grace that ties it all together.

As we feasted that evening, the air in Spencerville was warmer than ever. With my ‘blue’ safe beneath my paw and ‘blue’ skies above, there was a feeling that everything, for now, was as it should be.

In conclusion, my dear human friends, should you ever visit Spencerville, and I highly recommend you do, you’ll hear the tale of how Russell and his band of merry mutts turned a parade pandemonium into a jubilee of joy—and how an outsider found their place, not just at the table, but in the heart of a community.

In Spencerville, you see, every dog has his day, just as sure as every tossed Frisbee must return.

The End.