Hey Mom,

Just guided a bunch of lost critters across Pawsburgh to find their Christmas spirit—sort of like a furry GPS with extra charm. Guess I’m the town’s unexpected shepherd now! Holiday miracles come with wagging tails this year. Will find that bone later. 😉

Licks and wags,
Bambi

Listen to the story here

In Pawsburgh, where canine dreams are embroidered in the warp and weft of reality, I am, quite simply, a collector of the extraordinary. Picture, if you will, a dapper dash through yuletide snowflakes on Bichon Boulevard—an adventure so splendid, it’s bound to stir the kibble in your tummy.

Now, Christmas Eve was upon us—the sort of night that had a certain ‘je ne sais bark’—and I, Bambi, the dachshund-retriever of some distinction and notably expressive eyebrows, had a date with destiny. Or rather, a date with guidance and kindness—holiday spirits who’d clearly misplaced their GPS.

I began where all good stories do—in the heart of Pawsburgh, beneath the twinkling frost of festooned street lamps. The air was a nippy concoction that pinched your nostrils and paw pads with equal opportunity. Still, it was all rather invigorating once you got past the inevitable sensation of frolicking in a walk-in freezer.

My friends Hunter and Ninja were away on mystic errands, leaving me to my own devices—a dangerous proposition given my whimsical soul and a propensity for, let’s say, dogged curiosity. But lo! That was when I spied them—a straggly procession of lost travelers, a mishmash of paws, hooves, and tired wings, trundling aimlessly down Schnauzer Street.

I wiggled closer, assuming the noble poise of The Christmas Shepherd. It was a role I hadn’t auditioned for, yet somehow I was cast. I intoned with as much gravitas as one can muster when you’re inherently designed for chasing squirrels, “Fear not, I am Bambi—well, not the deer, obviously. But I will guide you this Christmas Eve.”

Their leader, a pensive pigeon with a feathered brow furrowed in avian concern, cooed a reply, “It’s frightfully kind of you, but we’re more lost than a bone in a backyard.” I could relate. Who hasn’t buried a thing or two and promptly forgotten its whereabouts?

Taking the lead, we passed Poodle’s Pasta, where sauce is always a risk to white fur, and Collie’s Cuisine, known for its meaty bites and curious absence of collies. But it was Doggie Diner that made my snout wrinkle—not due to disdain, but memories of that unnamed food causing a tail of discontent.

Oh, but this story isn’t about my gustatory quirks; it’s about shepherding. We zigzagged through merry crowds, meandering past Fetch! Toys and Treats, with their windows full of chewy Vuitton dreams that I dare say no lost traveler could afford, and Spa for Paws, a balmy refuge for those needing a spruce before the yule log.

“You see, my feathered friend,” I remarked to the pigeon, “Pawsburgh is a realm of opportunity, where every dog—and the occasional misfit menagerie—finds their way with a little bit of kindness, a brisk wag, and sometimes, inexplicable guidance.”

We concluded our serendipitous parade at Doberman Dunes, an expanse of snowy undulation that, for tonight, shone with a resplendence usually reserved for a full bowl of dinner. It was here, beneath the benevolent gaze of stars, that my entourage found a spark of recognition. They weren’t lost, merely taking the scenic route.

The pigeon, fluttering with newly-found purpose, cooed gratefully, “Thank you, Bambi. You’ve shown more than the way—you’ve infused us with the spirit of Pawsburgh.”

I beamed. A modest achievement for an erstwhile Christmas Shepherd. As they disappeared into the Pawsburgh night, a shadow of contentment washed over me. Christmas Eve had been saved, not by grand gestures but by small acts draped in fur and goodwill.

Now, where was that bone I had buried…?

The End.

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