Hey there,

Just a quick pawdate: Holy tail wags, I’ve spun a Christmas tale that could melt icicles! Went from solo star-gazing to warming the old man’s Scrooge-y heart. We’ve even shared chicken tracks in the snow! Paws crossed, but I reckon every night might just be a bit more jolly now.

Sleep tight,
Tristan 🐾🌟

Listen to the story here

Well now, you’ll not believe what a day I had ‘neath the twinkling lights and festive garlands drapin’ over Pawsburgh, not unless I spin you the yarn myself. Old Tristan, that’s me, with my fur as fawn as the earth after harvest and wrinkles plenty enough to lose your pocket watch in, set off from the human quarters with a twinkle in my eye that mirrored the stars themselves.

It was Christmas Eve, a time when our lot would find the meanest of hearts softened like butter left out on a summer’s porch. But the human I tether my affections to was of the stingy sort, with a heart shrunk two sizes too small, as someone might say. Not a chicken scrap nor a new toy had come my way from him in a blue moon or more.

Amidst the mirth and gaiety of Pawsburgh, I found myself atop Hound Heights, overlookin’ the dazzlin’ lights of Opal Pomeranian Park, all while my dear owner sat at home counting his pennies like a dragon atop his hoard. Yes, friends were in abundance here – Max’s ears flopped as he dodged through the frosted bushes, and Bella, purring like a steam engine, watched the festivities from her perch – but it weren’t the same while he sat there, cold as the north wind.

The night carried on, as nights are wont to do, and I found myself pondering at the Bark-n-Bite Bistro over a bowl of gravy and turkey trimmings. The others spoke of their own folks back home, of the warm hearths and stockings soon to bulge with goodies. Was it the season’s magic, or merely the longing in my gut, but I started home with a slow resolve.

I pushed open the door to find him there, as expected, clinging to the warmth of a single candle flicker, the shadows cast likin’ him to the specter of last year’s Christmas.

“A bit late, aren’t you, Tristan?” he grumbled, not lifting his eyes from his ledger.

I let out a soft whine, inchin’ closer. His hand found the bristle of my back, and there it was, a minute softening in his touch. His eyes met mine, and I pleaded – silent-like – for the Scrooge in him to hibernate, if only for the night.

The clock struck thrice, and would you credit it, it seemed a kind of understanding came over him. He rose, my human did, and with a deep sigh, he abandoned his counting and sat beside me, giving my ears a genuine scratch.

“Perhaps we could share a Christmas walk, Tristan,” he offered, and my tail set to waggin’ before he even reached for my leash.

We stepped out beneath the blanket of night, me and him, the town’s lights twinkling like fallen stars on the path. We walked past Pet Partners Pet Supplies, adorned with wreaths and bows, all the way to The Doggie Daycare that lay silent with the dreams of sleepy pups.

My owner, he started talking, not about coins or debts, but about his boyhood pup, his voice carrying memories like they was wrapped in tissue paper and just been found in the attic.

Returning home, there was a different air – a warmth not from the fire, but from within him. He busied himself about the kitchen, and “Be danged,” I thought as I watched him drop a slice of chicken in my bowl. My tail, it couldn’t wag no harder without unscrewin’ from my rump.

That evening, as the embers died and I curled tight by his feet, I reflected on the blessing of our simple companionship. I knew, from then on, our days would be joined with a new tenderness, and with that thought, Tristan, loyal bulldog of Pawsburgh, drifted into dreams of green parks and juicy chickens, contented and awaitin’ the morrow.

The End.

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