PAWSRADAR

Birthday: 12th April. A pale dawn broke over the clearing of Plymouth Colony, the world hushed beneath a frost-thin cloak and the scent of roasting fowl and newly-husked corn lingering on the chill breeze. In that autumn of 1621, Miso the cat, sleek of coat and poised of demeanour, stepped softly across rough-hewn boards and battered barrels, her eyes gleaming like dark amber beads in the morning light. She moved between the baskets of maize and the wooden trencher plates, alert to every stir of children’s feet, every stray kernel that rolled and clinked. When the small ones approached with a scrap of turkey or corn husk, she permitted a gracious blink and a soft purr; yet when some careless child overturned a basket, or a loose fowl strayed too near the hearth’s edge, Miso’s tail flicked and her paw descended with quiet but unmistakable authority. In that first harvest feast, as English voices rose in gratitude and Wampanoag hunters stood with deer proud on the edge of the clearing, Miso reigned in stillness — a sentinel of calm in the midst of joyous abundance, reminding all that even in triumph the order of the household must stand.

Birthday: 3rd August. The crisp New England air bore the tang of smoked venison and wood-ash as Bramble the dog bounded among tables of hewn pine and baskets laden with maize and pumpkin. This autumn in 1621 saw the settlers of Plymouth Colony, aided by their Wampanoag neighbours, gather in a harvest feast that lasted days. Bramble, coat shining with healthy vigor, nose ever twitching, carried within him the hearty spirit of loyalty. He darted from basket to basket, retrieving fallen gourds or loose beans and depositing them at children’s feet, his tail sweeping like a metronome of merriment. When a stray turkey or wild fowl strayed too close to the labourers’ meal, he barked — not cruelly, but with clear authority — and guided the bird back toward the woods’ edge, guarding the harvest with honour. Meanwhile, children chased him in laughter, he leapt aside and returned again with a stolen kernel, his tongue lolling and his spirit unbridled. On that field of plenty, as men and Indians feasted and the sound of axes and oars receded for a moment in thanksgiving, Bramble embodied the warmth of companionship and the pride of service — a dog fully present in the miracle of survival and abundance.

Birthday: 21st March. In the dawn-light of the autumn clearing, Ember the horse stood patient and strong, his chestnut coat gleaming faintly beneath the rising sun, breath steaming in the cool air. All summer long the settlers and Wampanoag had laboured—planting corn, tending beans, fishing rivers, hauling timber—and now the harvest reward was laid out upon the cleared ground. Ember had borne the weight of wagons laden with pumpkins, barrels of cider, and sacks of maize across the fields of rough sod and frozen morning dew. Children gathered and tugged at his mane, weaving strands of dried blossoms into his forelock, and he endured with tranquil dignity—snorting soft puffs, ears flicking at the murmur of voices and the clang of metal. As the sun dipped low and torches were lit around the feast, he grazed near the edge of the clearing, ears ever attentive, the scent of hay and hearth strong around him. In that moment, Ember became the pillar beneath the celebration — a steady presence in a world newly abundant, a silent witness to gratitude and endurance in the wilderness of the New World.

Birthday: 7th October. Under the benches, between the barrels, and amid the scattering of corn husks, Pip the ferret darted with mischievous brightness. In the autumn of 1621, as settlers of Plymouth Colony and nine-and-ten Wampanoag hunters gathered in a three-day harvest feast (as one surviving letter records), Pip found his realm. He slipped beneath the cleared tables, where children’s shoes scraped on rough boards and the scent of roasting fowl rose on each breath. With triumphant squeaks he claimed kernels and crumbs, tossing them into a hidden corner and watching the young ones chase in gleeful pursuit. When an elder scolded the uproar, Pip froze for a moment, tucked himself beneath a barrel, then reappeared with a stolen bean or a bright feather from a wild goose. His lightness of being reminded all present that even in a solemn moment of thanks, there was land for curiosity, for mirth, for the soft shuffle of small feet. In his bright eyes and swift body, the children found delight; in his playful presence, the adults found a moment’s respite — a creature of gentleness and cunning that wove himself into the larger tapestry of survival, harvest, and community.

Birthday: 18th January. In the hush of the clearing’s edge, beside the flickering torchlight and logs smouldering in the hearth, sat Clover the rabbit — gentle of habit, soft of fur, a creature whose presence soothed the labour-worn souls of Plymouth Colony. She nibbled tenderly at wilted greens and husks laid aside by kindly children, ears twitching at Pip’s antics and at the distant laughter of the gathered. The settlers had endured pestilence the prior winter, half their number lost, yet now, as the feast stretched into its second and third day (surviving records indicate such in 1621) they found cause for thanksgiving and rest. Clover lent calm to the rough-hewn joy, a silent solace amid the rhythmic thumps of feet and clink of mugs. When younger ones grew overexcited, they escaped to her side, stroking her fur, whispering soft secrets. In that wild wood on the brink of winter, Clover became the harbinger of quiet — humility embodied — reminding all that in the miracle of harvest, there is space for stillness, for gentleness, for the small and simple gifts that sustain the heart.

Birthday: 14th June. Above the bustle of the clearing, amidst the hiss of torches and the murmur of songs and prayers offered to God for harvest and mercy, perched Sol the parrot — plumage shining like emerald and flame against the grey timber of the meeting-house beam. Though bright of colour and exotic of origin, he had become part of the settlement’s household, a marvel to both children and adults alike. During the feast of autumn 1621, Sol listened with keen head-tilt as Wampanoag men stood poised with deer they had brought, as settlers raised cups and gave thanks, and as the hunted fowl crackled over the fire. With sudden flare he flapped his wings and cried words he had picked up over many months: ‘Thanks be!’ ‘Corn!’ ‘More!’ — each utterance drawing laughter or astonishment, as though he himself celebrated the bounty. As dusk deepened and stars blinked over the woodland horizon, Sol lifted his voice in a sharp squawk, as though heralding not just the day’s feast, but the promise of survival, alliance, and a life carved in a strange land. In his vivid plumes and lively voice, the presence of Sol carried the settlers’ hope aloft — bright, unexpected, and full of promise.

Acquire the full and complete set of ‘Paws from the First Thanksgiving of 1621’ — six vignettes that carry you into the heart of that autumn harvest in Plymouth Colony. Each companion (Miso the cat; Bramble the dog; Ember the horse; Pip the ferret; Clover the rabbit; and Sol the parrot) offers a unique viewpoint on the moment when English settlers and Wampanoag neighbours came together to mark a successful harvest after a winter of loss and labour. Through these portraits you step into their world — the frost-edged clearing, the scent of woodsmoke and roasted venison, the murmur of prayers and the laughter of children, and the quiet presence of animals who watched, served, and shared in that fragile abundance.